


Part I: Lost

by FandomN00b



Series: Lost and Found: The Misadventures of Marian Hawke and Everyone She Meets [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: CW suicide/self-martyrdom, F/M, Heavy Angst, Lost and Found DA2 endgame canon divergence, impending canon divergence, rapidly shifting POV (sorry), traumatic ending...?, which I promise to resolve eventually!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Nothing feels quite right. There is a sense of dread all across Kirkwall as tensions are on the rise between Templars and mages, and Hawke and her friends feel caught in the middle. It doesn't help that she has no clue what's going on with Anders. Orana senses it, too, and struggles to make sense of her place in all of it.(End of DA2, written from Hawke and Orana's POVs, mostly.)





	1. The Morning After and Before

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 is really just a 'review' chapter with some extra angst and introduction to Orana. :)
> 
> Some canon divergence sort of begins in Chapter 2 and takes off from there with some real angsty HAnders stuff for those of you who can stand all the fretting.
> 
> Chapter 3 is all about shopping. But like, as an avoidance tactic when faced with a sense of overwhelming dread.
> 
> Chapter 4 is called Boom. 'Nuff said.
> 
> And a certain redhead randomly shows up in Chapter 5. Because why not? She shows up everywhere else. And she never dies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is usually a mess in the morning, but on this particular morning, she's filled with a special foreboding sense of imminent disaster. BUT SHE WON'T LET THAT STOP HER!

The late morning sun was streaming in brilliantly through the tall eastern-facing windows of the former-Amell-turned-Hawke estate, casting long, warm, white stripes down the stairs and spreading out across the main floor below. Porcia was snoozing loudly with her head in one patch of sunlight and her rear end in another, but other than the occasional chuff or snort, there was a misleading quiet throughout the entire estate. This wasn’t a restful peace (for anyone other than the dog, who was so accustomed to chaos that she was hardly a reliable judge of these things). It was a stifling emptiness, a foreboding calm just waiting to be disrupted, a feeling that even the sunshine couldn’t dispel, in spite of its best efforts.

Orana was sitting in the study below, curled up on the overstuffed velvet sofa with a cup of lukewarm tea and a book. It seemed like she spent a lot of time like this lately, waiting for someone to give her something to do. With Leandra gone, and Anders’ increasingly frequent absences, there just weren’t enough people around to keep her busy...or even entertained.

And it was actually starting to get to her. She wasn’t used to being bored and restless. She was running out of books to read, in spite of Hawke’s well-stocked library, and she would occasionally wonder if there were other jobs she might be good at outside of the protective bubble that Hawke had provided for her. She was a quick learner. She could read and write. Maybe a nice, safe secretarial job at Viscount’s Keep? Seneschal Bran, while often an object of ridicule for Hawke and her friends, seemed like a relatively decent person, anyway. And she already knew the Guard Captain. Surely that would count for something!

Serah Feddic and his odd boy had hastily packed up and left earlier that same morning, heading to Orlais with an invitation from the Empress herself. Bodahn also confided that the tensions between the mages and Templars in Kirkwall had gotten to be more than they wished to see through to what was beginning to feel like an inevitably violent end. Then the boy had gone into some kind of ominous trance muttering nonsense about the sky falling, someone or something rising, and Maker knows what else. Bodahn laughed it off, but there was a nervousness to him that seemed to settle only a little when Sandal turned and looked at him innocently again, and asked, “Enchantment?”

As strange as he was, she would miss him. And Bodahn. They enjoyed her baking more than anyone else. And they were people for her to talk to. Nice, unintimidating, non-judgmental, kind-hearted folks, who never once looked at her with any kind of pity, the likes of which she’d never had a chance to meet back in Tevinter.

Many of Hawke’s other visitors, while hardly unkind toward her (Hawke would have certainly done something about _that_ ), were a bit rougher around the edges. And often covered in blood. Or reeking of alcohol. Usually both, actually. They were also loud, always arguing with one another about Maker-knows-what, or making messes Orana tried to clean up before Hawke noticed what she was doing and told her to stop and made them do it themselves. They were all very interesting, at least. Over time, she’d gotten acquainted with each of them, their peculiar ways and habits and sensibilities, but these were mostly still Hawke’s friends, not her own.

Even so, she had noticed with some regret that the visits from Guard-Captain Aveline and Guardsman Donnic had become less frequent. More and more incidents between rebellious mages and over-zealous Templars had been demanding their attention as they did their best to serve and protect Kirkwall’s increasingly divided citizenry. Bethany, who was the least offensive among them, could rarely get permission to leave the Circle for visits anymore, even from the sympathetic Knight-Captain, who claimed it was for her own protection due to the increased tensions in the city. Merrill, too, seemed a bit spooked about leaving her little apartment in the Alienage for fear of running into any over-eager Templars alone, especially during the day when it was harder to hide her staff or the telltale scars of blood magic that marked her arms and hands. Isabela still visited occasionally, maybe just to spite them all, but she seemed down, less exuberant, less obnoxious, less _herself_ lately. And without the others to spur her on, it just wasn’t the same. The tutoring sessions with Fenris had trailed off, too. Either because they were going so well and Fenris no longer required Hawke’s or Orana’s help deciphering the texts he preferred on geography, language, and culture, or because they all had more urgent matters to deal with. Varric still came by on a semi-regular basis, but he always seemed to have something immediate or important to do or discuss with Hawke and had little time or patience for polite conversation.

Anders had been the exception, since he lived there, most of the time, and had spent considerable time alone with Orana, getting to know her, and sharing his frustrations with her when few others would listen. He seemed especially interested in her previous life, what she felt comfortable sharing with him, and although he tried not to be impolite or overly curious about what he believed was probably a much more painful childhood than Orana remembered it being, she would often tell him things about Tevinter society that he found fascinating, skipping over the parts of it that were more unpleasant. She had noticed early on how quickly his mood would change at the mention of anything related to her servitude or the cruelty of a slave society. Although she was quite fond of and comfortable with Anders and his usual mood swings, she was utterly terrified of upsetting Justice, the spirit who dwelled within him.

She was reading one of the trashy hand-written stories Isabela still liked to leave around the estate for her. When she’d first moved in with them, Anders had teased her about the way she’d taken to the little books, claiming there was nothing of truth or worth in that kind of writing, but Hawke had defended her right to enjoy smut as a free woman without shame and accused Anders of being too ‘paternalistic.’ Then Hawke had read aloud a particularly raunchy passage about a tragic apostate, “Andrea,” and her nouveau riche Hightown lover, “Lord Falcon,” which made Anders blush and excuse himself from the conversation altogether. “Izzy and I collaborated on that one,” Hawke had whispered to Orana with a wink. For Hawke’s sake, Orana had pretended to be surprised.

Aside from the unfathomable amount of sex everyone in Isabela’s stories seemed to be having, Orana mostly just liked recognizing the thinly-veiled versions of Hawke and her companions. It was a safe, easy way to get to know them, to make sense of their complicated lives, if one could wade through the silly fantasy. Isabela was not all that creative with pseudonyms or masking the parts of their adventures that were more familiar to Orana. The smut was just a bonus to the window it gave her into their experiences together. And it beat the boring texts and recipes her father had clandestinely taught her to read with as a child growing up a slave in Hadriana’s household. Even though Hawke and her companions would occasionally invite her to join them on some of their less dangerous work, she had decided early on she was quite satisfied staying behind at the relatively quiet and secure estate and enjoying these little glimpses of their exploits, through Isabela’s stories, and through their own, often conflicting re-tellings. She had heard Varric intended to publish his own version of Hawke’s exploits someday, news she found surprising since he seemed to have the least patience for any of their shenanigans.

But she had begun to catch herself wondering more and more what kind of fighter she might be as she skeptically read over descriptions of fights with slavers and Coterie thugs and “dog lords”...whatever those were. Would she be sneaky like Isabela, powerful like Aveline, strategic like Varric? Hawke and Isabela had taught her a few things, mainly for self defense, but she’d found a lot of time lately to practice, alone, with some of Hawke’s old daggers.

With a sigh, Orana flipped past a lengthy description of a pirate ship that was full of absurd innuendo, trying to find something new or exciting to read. She didn’t notice that Hawke had finally emerged from her bedroom looking more disheveled and perplexed than usual as she stared out glassy-eyed from the top of the balcony, only half-dressed in her tunic. She usually didn’t bother combing her hair or putting pants on until she was headed out for the day, but she looked especially out of sorts today. Still, those deceitfully pleasant sun beams seemed to be lapping at her back as she stood there, trying desperately to convince her that everything was fine.

Hawke squinted through the sunlight down at Orana and finally managed to formulate a question after some long, blank stares. “Did Anders leave?”

Orana had become thoroughly engrossed in a particularly gratuitous section of Isabela’s fiction that featured a Dalish elf, Beryl, and her lover, a smuggler named Josefina who’d just freed her from slavers. She jumped at the sound of Hawke’s voice echoing abruptly down at her.

“Yes, Mistre -- Serah!” She hadn’t slipped into subservience like that in some time, but being startled had put her on guard and she’d fallen back into old defensive habits. She blushed and her ears dipped down, making her feel even more self-conscious. Fortunately, Hawke didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she seemed completely preoccupied with Anders’ whereabouts.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No. He seemed in a hurry. He didn’t even take his tea!”

...

Orana had been the only one who had seen the strange, panicked look in Anders’ eyes when he’d left before dawn, before Bodahn and Sandal had even awoken and begun to pack up their wares. He hadn’t noticed her in the kitchen on his way out, preparing his favorite tea as a ‘welcome home’ gesture of sorts. She’d seen his staff propped up by the door, evidence of his late-night return, and she knew he usually woke up early, almost as early as she did. She wanted to be ready with his tea when he made his way down to work on his Manifesto. It had been awhile since she’d seen him writing. She often sat or worked nearby while he argued with himself or occasionally ran things by her for feedback. It had been even longer since he’d asked her to help him with his lute-playing. She’d missed him. So had Hawke, obviously, but she wasn’t usually very good about telling him things like that without losing her temper. Orana couldn’t blame her, but she hoped that whatever had come between them in the past few weeks was over now, and they could just return to their normal everyday bickering. And their laughter. And their love which came through strongest when they thought nobody else was paying attention. If nothing else, Orana at least hoped she’d have someone to gossip with again.

She cleared her throat politely just as he passed.

He jumped, then looked at her, bewildered. “Orana? What the -- ? Err, I mean, good morning? And...good day.” He nodded curtly, his eyes shifting around uncomfortably as he searched for any other obstacles between him and the exit, then ducked his head back down as he continued to make his way quickly to the door.

But she called after him, hoping to convince him to stay, even just a few minutes longer. “I was about to bring you your tea, Serah…”

He had been the first to insist that if she wasn’t comfortable just calling him ‘Anders,’ she call him ‘Serah.’ Not ‘Dominus’ or ‘Messere’ or ‘Ser’ or ‘Lord’ or any other deferential title. It had been hard to break herself of this tendency, but with enough practice, she’d gotten used to it. And he’d certainly made it easier by treating her as his equal. Not that Hawke was unfair or demanded any undue respect, but she owed her her life, her freedom, her continued shelter and protection, and she was her employer, so it was more difficult for Orana to break out of the familiar protocols with Hawke. She felt like she still owed her so much.

But Anders didn’t seem to hear her, or at least he pretended not to, which was very unlike him, no matter how urgent his business was. Before she could offer to pack up his tea for him to take wherever he was headed in such a hurry, he had grabbed his staff and was out the door without another word. Orana shrugged, and decided that instead of letting the tea go to waste, she’d drink it herself while enjoying a little morning reading, even though his preferred earl grey wasn’t _her_ favorite. She knew Hawke hated it (“It’s just warm dish water, isn’t it? Be honest...I won’t tell him!”), and she would probably still be asleep for awhile, anyway.

…

Hawke looked utterly defeated by the news of Anders’ early morning departure. “I see...well, fuck.”

It wasn’t even anger. Orana was used to Hawke being angry or irritated with him. She just looked...exhausted.

“Is there something wrong?” Orana knew the answer, but she was hoping there might be _something_ _else_ she could help with.

“Yeah. Well, I dunno...” Hawke trailed off, her focus retreating inward again for a few moments before she shook her head. “Yes, I mean probably, because it’s Anders. Of course.” There was some of that familiar irritation, at least. It actually gave Orana a little bit of hope, having grown accustomed to the way their relationship worked with all of its volatile ups and downs.

Hawke’s eyes focused back on Orana’s concerned face. “But I really hope not. Or at least I hope not as wrong as it feels. Ugh...I’m sorry, but could you help me get my shit together, Orana?”

“Of course! That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it? To help you ‘keep your shit together,’ I believe, was the only thing you wrote into my contract.”

Hawke gave her a little proud, gracious smile. “Thanks.” She always appreciated when Orana’s sarcastic sense of humor peeked through all the well-trained politeness. “I’ve gotta go see a pyromaniacal dwarf in Lowtown before he gets run out of town, and I can’t even think straight enough to put pants on this morning. Varric is supposed to be here any minute. And you know how grumpy he gets when we’re running behind whatever crazy ass schedule he has in mind.”

…

Anders had become even more withdrawn and worrisome than usual lately. First, he’d abruptly stopped ranting about mages and Templars and Meredith and the Grand Cleric and all the injustices of the existing social order. He also seemed to have abandoned the latest draft of his Manifesto, something Hawke never would have thought could possibly have bothered her as much as it did when she realized he’d stopped working on it altogether. She found herself sometimes even trying to provoke an argument when they were together just to check to see that he, and Justice, were still...there.

And not just mentally or emotionally present, because for the past few weeks, he’d been staying more and more in his clinic, or Maker-knows-where-else instead of with her. She’d caught him sneaking into bed in the early morning hours sometimes, pretending he’d been there all night at her side, as if she wouldn’t have missed the way he unconsciously leaked warm, soothing, healing magic into her while they slept.

But it wasn’t like her to nag or question where he’d been. They had an unspoken understanding about such behavior, and neither was really interested in becoming _that_ kind of couple. Both of them always had a lot going on, and he was free to come and go as he pleased. She trusted him. At least she thought she did. Ok, so at least she really _wanted_ to trust him.

He might’ve been busy at the clinic -- there did seem to be bit of a flu going around, and a lot of new babies recently. Or maybe his network of mages had had some success at liberating some other mages from their Circles and he was busy organizing escape routes via the Mage Underground?

But why wouldn’t he include her in those things? She’d helped him in the clinic and with the Underground plenty of other times. Perhaps it was just an oversight. He _did_ tend to get swept up in things. Or maybe he thought _she_ was particularly busy with her own things. She _was_ still trying to figure out what it meant to be Kirkwall’s “Champion,” and the head of her own new noble house without her mother to guide her, along with learning to manage the fortune she’d somehow amassed in the past few years.

She knew these were all ridiculous possibilities, but they were the only explanations she could think of that didn’t make her stomach churn.

The few times she’d made an attempt to gently prod into his recent endeavours, or even just begin to voice her dissatisfaction at his frequent absences, he’d been able to deflect her inquiries and avoid actually talking about it, either through cold, bitter defensiveness, or, more often, and more effectively, by becoming suddenly very charming.

Damn him! She knew exactly what he was doing when he’d bat those amber eyes at her or reach a long lanky arm around her waist. But he was really fucking good at it, and she was powerless to resist him. It made her even more uneasy about everything when she realized he’d probably honed these skills in the Fereldan Circle or at the Pearl in Denerim as a way of manipulating or evading the Templars. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel like she was trying to keep him “captive” or track his every move like they had. She feared that the more she pried, the further he’d pull away, eventually fleeing her altogether like he had the Circle, then the Wardens.

So when he’d asked for her help last week in gathering a bizarre list of ingredients, she’d jumped at the chance to show her enthusiastic support and get involved in whatever this new project was, dragging Isabela and Fenris with them through the sewers and the deep, cursed caverns of the Bone Pit which had been abandoned as a commercial venture ever since Hubert had basically begged Hawke to buy him out of his last remaining shares.

She hadn’t questioned Anders about what they were collecting or why, and had made it clear that no one else was going to poo poo her beloved’s request, either. After they’d gathered the items, he’d asked her to talk to and distract the Grand Cleric while he clandestinely checked on a patient of his at the Chantry.

It wasn’t unusual for Anders to have patients, especially in the Chantry or in Hightown, who wished to keep their association with the apostate spirit healer a secret. She thought it was a little odd that he’d asked her to distract Elthina specifically with conversation about the growing tensions between the mages and Templars, but she allowed herself to believe that perhaps he was coming around to her way of thinking. She had suggested that they try to appeal to Elthina’s humanity, or at least exhaust their local options and eventually appeal to the Divine, who seemed a bit more supportive of the struggle for mage rights from what they’d heard coming out of Orlais recently: Rumors that the Divine herself had read some draft of Anders’ Manifesto, and that Seekers were being dispatched to investigate allegations of misconduct by Templars, including Meredith’s increasingly unhinged power grabs. Hawke allowed herself to believe that maybe Anders would be encouraged by such things.

But as soon as he’d gotten what he needed, he became even more scarce than before. Varric seemed the most aware of Hawke’s growing unease over the past week as he remained missing, and he was the only one brave or perhaps stupid enough to ask about it.

...

After a disappointing game of Wicked Grace, with seemingly no winners and multiple losers, the others sat around drinking and reminiscing about their earliest impressions of one another. Fenris had been recounting the way he used to try and hide in the cellar of Danarius’ mansion in hopes that Hawke would give up on trying to find him and drag him along with Anders and Merrill to hunt demons on the Wounded Coast.

Merrill laughed. “You were so afraid of me, then! I could tell, but it seemed so odd!”

“To me, you were the most horrifying creature...curious, warm, friendly, _and_ a witch, though that was probably the least terrifying thing about you. And you knew more about being an elf than I could ever hope to know.”

“You were pretty intimidating, too, lethallin!”

“Hawke, a word…?” Varric motioned for her to follow him into his suite.

“What, Varric?!” she snapped, having been silently stewing in her own thoughts for some time. It was loud and harsh enough that they all stopped and looked at her for a moment. She ducked her head and stood up and stomped up the stairs into Varric’s room like a child in trouble.

“Yeesh! Have a drink!” Varric set a glass of fine Dwarven whiskey from his own reserves in front of her.

“Sorry. I’ve been a little...I dunno. What is it?”

“Have you seen Blondie at all recently?”

“No. Have you?!” She was still being a little defensive. She looked at the whiskey in front of her and decided to drink it in one gulp, hoping it might keep her from continuing to lash out at one of her best friends.

But fortunately, Varric could ignore her snippy tone. He had known her long enough not to take most of her shit too personally. “I’m worried about him, too. He’s been a little...off. And he used to stop by every now and then to just kind of rant. Over a couple of pints of cheap ale. Well, _free_ to _him_. But he hasn’t done that in awhile.”

“Yeah.”

“Isabela told me about that stuff he had you all collecting. It reminded me of someone.”

“It was weird. But I’m sure it’s just for some kind of potion or medical treatment. He’s been really busy lately. I think he’s got a lot of patients or something…” She knew she didn’t believe the things she was saying, and she knew Varric definitely didn’t, either. But he graciously allowed her to get away with the delusion. At least for now.

“Ah, well...I got word that Temmerin Glavonak would be in town tomorrow. His family used to pay quite a bit for that fossilized shit you all were digging up. He might be able to tell us a little more about its uses. We could go chat with him, if you want? I know he has Warden ties...maybe Anders has been working with them on something and has been sworn to secrecy. You know how they are...”

“Anders working with the Wardens? That’s a hilarious thought, though it would certainly explain his moodiness. Maybe it _would_ be nice just to see if Glavonak knows anything. And to catch up, too!”

“Err...yeah. I forgot how well you two hit it off in the Deep Roads.” Varric sneered. He personally had very little tolerance for the Glavonaks. Reckless maniacs, that they were.

…

“Will you be needing your combat gear?” Orana had already begun to gather Hawke’s outer garments. She paused as she examined the armor that had been flung to the floor on the way upstairs last night after Hawke had returned from the Hanged Man. Her daggers had been plunged pointy-side-first nearby into her desk. It wasn’t the first set of frustrated puncture wounds the desk had sustained, and Orana imagined it wouldn’t be the last. She used to tidy up after Hawke and her visitors each night, but Hawke had insisted she stop so that she might be able to piece together whatever drunken mess they’d been up to the night before.

“Yes, unfortunately. It _is_ Lowtown, after all.” Hawke watched, a little embarrassed by the way she’d taken her sour mood out on the furniture again. Orana pulled the daggers out of the desk and carefully slid them into her double scabbard that had been impatiently wrenched off her body and tossed across the room. She really ought to start taking better care of her things...like she imagined _adults_ were supposed to.

“Understood.”

“Thank you, Orana. And I’ll need some new potions made up since Anders has run off and deserted us again. See if you can get Bodahn or Sandal to help you...the ingredients should all be there. I just used up all the ones that were in my belt last time we got attacked by a random group of brigands trying to impress someone who hates us.” Hawke yawned nonchalantly. Attacks on her and her companions’ lives had always been relatively commonplace for as long as Orana had known them.

“The Feddics left this morning, Serah.”

“What?” Her lazy yawn was abruptly halted by more disappointing news.

“Sandal apparently had an offer to go and work for the Empress in Orlais?” Orana didn’t want to mention the _real_ reason Sandal and Bodahn had left so suddenly. Partially because she knew how hard Hawke had been working to keep the mages and Templars from all-out war, and partially because she could see how worried Hawke was already about Anders, who often put himself in the center of these tensions.

“Shit. Wow. Well, I guess we’ll just have to make do. Sorry, again, to dump all of this on you.” In spite of all her other worries, Hawke did look like she felt genuinely bad about asking so much of Orana all at once. It had been awhile since she’d really asked for anything more than a cup of coffee or some late-night cinnamon rolls to soak up a belly full of cheap whiskey.

“It’s fine.” Orana tried to smile reassuringly up at her.

Truthfully, Orana didn’t need anyone’s help. She actually had quite a knack for potion-mixing, the foundations of which she’d learned as a slave, though she’d never been given the freedom to experiment under Hadriana’s authority. In Hawke’s employ, she was given full access to whatever she wanted from the estate’s supply rooms and gardens. Even Anders had been impressed by some of Orana’s more adventurous concoctions, but she hadn’t wanted to boast about her skills to Hawke. Hawke was terrible at making potions, seemingly incapable of mixing together even the simplest healing tonic, an elfroot potion. It was literally just elfroot, distilled down to its healing essence, then mixed with water and a little bit of honey to make it more palatable. Orana always added extra ingredients to the ones she made for Hawke, though. Things that could make one a little faster, a little more alert, a little more resistant to poison or infection, depending on which ingredients she could find in Hawke’s supplies. When Anders had moved in, he’d brought a lot of extra things that she could play around with. But since he’d been so pre-occupied and absent lately, the stocks were beginning to dwindle.

She sighed. She’d do her best to make some potent health and stamina draughts for Hawke and her companions before they set out today.

While Orana went to work readying the potion ingredients, Hawke really did struggle just to get her pants on. How did she function before Orana had come to work for her? She slumped back down onto her bed, staring up into the empty space between her and the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything that was, or rather, wasn’t happening. She wanted to crawl back under the covers and go to sleep. For the rest of the day, perhaps, if not the week. Until this weird, stifling feeling had passed, and everything was back to how it used to be. Chaos, still, but chaos they could ultimately still laugh at. Chaos they could manage. Her friends, her family, her love, and her loyal mabari at her side as they haughtily dispatched Qunari and slavers and asshole Templars and evil mages alike without a care for the larger consequences. This was how she preferred to deal with the world. In terms of good guys (preferably her and her friends) and bad guys (specifically, anyone who might wish to harm them). And the good guys always won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know...lots of words, no real plot developments. We're getting there. Hopefully.


	2. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke remembers some confusing and worrisome details from last night and then proceeds to pretend EVERYTHING IS FINE!

There was a sharp shooting pain beginning to make itself known through the mental fog of the morning that was dwelling right behind Hawke’s left eye. Every time she tried to focus on anything or make any effort to get herself motivated to start the day, it reasserted itself, stronger each time she entertained the thought of sitting back up or putting on pants. Thank the Maker Orana was there to help her out. Had she gotten in a fight last night? Punched in the face, or head slammed against a wall, maybe? No, but she’d certainly wanted to. It would’ve been a nice distraction, at least.

…

They’d finished their Wicked Grace game early after everyone had somehow found a way to lose, and no one was really in the mood for any late-night mayhem. Things all over the city had gotten too tense, and there was no telling what they might run into on the prowl for just a little bit of mischief. A little scuffle could very well be the last straw for either side in the current powder keg.

Even though Hawke knew as well as any of them how precarious the situation was between Orsino and Meredith, she’d still tried her best to talk Fenris and Isabela into heckling the Templars who had taken over half the bar. Anything was preferable to just sitting around, _talking_ , and reminiscing, like causing trouble was somehow only something they did in their _past_. It felt as if they were all preparing to go their separate ways, and she didn’t want to entertain the gloomy thoughts that occasionally entered into her consciousness when she had the chance to stop and think about the future. So she told herself they were all just getting old. She was expending a lot of energy showing her dissatisfaction via exaggerated eye rolls and audible sighs of boredom.

After her last attempt at rousing a fight out of her companions, Fenris finally pissed her off enough to shut her up for good. “Hawke, if you’re trying to impress Anders or Justice by instigating something with the Templars, _neither_ of them are here…or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’ve -- I’m not -- ungh!” She threw her hands up, exasperated. “Maker take you all! I’m done with this blighted shithole. Enjoy your fucking tea party!”

Isabela shot him a quick look as Hawke stormed out of the tavern. She sidled up close to him, draping an arm over his shoulder, and then she whispered so that no one else could hear, “Careful, hun…your jealousy is peeking through the brooding just a bit.”

Fenris shrugged her off his shoulder with an irritated grunt, and made a point not to watch Hawke’s dramatic exit as he took another swig from the bottle he’d brought himself, one of the last from Danarius’ cellar. Apparently, this exchange had soured his relatively good mood a bit, too.

Merrill looked expectantly between Fenris and Isabela, hoping somebody might still be interested in chatting. It had been so pleasant. Hadn’t it? She wasn’t quite ready to venture back to her lonely little apartment in the Alienage for the night. She hoped Isabela might escort her back, not that it was really on her way at all, since she was already ‘home’ at the Hanged Man, but she often pretended it was en route to somewhere else, and Merrill thoroughly enjoyed her company and the sense of security she provided, with one strong, sumptuous arm usually wrapped cozily around her waist as they giggled and made their way through Lowtown.

Isabela put her chin in her hands and stared lovingly across the table back at her, refusing to let Hawke’s outburst and Fenris’ sudden grumpiness ruin her night. “Oh, Kitten, it’s my turn! Tell me all about your first impressions of _me_ …”

Hawke almost turned to go back at the sound of Merrill’s nervous and nearly-irresistible giggling, but she couldn’t risk anymore questions about Anders, or another knowing glance from Isabela, or anymore thoughts about what was to become of her and her friends if the shit finally hit the fan. She huffed out a disgusted sigh and continued stomping her way back to Hightown, muttering about Maker-knows-what to keep her mind off of what was really bothering her.

...

 _That’s_ what had put her in such a bad mood last night. It wasn’t enough that Varric had to remind her of Anders’ strange behavior and frequent absences in his very dad-like way of being both overly concerned for her well-being while at the same time being horribly disappointed in her inability to manage her affairs. At least he was concerned about Anders as their _friend_ , too.

But Fenris, of all people -- it was almost as if he had been looking forward to this chance to finally say “I told you so!” after so many years. She could swear he had seemed almost _giddy_ at the opportunity to rub it in her face that her boyfriend, the abomination, the _mage_ , was missing. Again.

She’d stormed off and hurtled herself into bed, overcome with anger, frustration, worry, and self-pity. Fenris could go fuck himself, Varric could get bent, and Anders...she was going to kill him this time the minute he slunk back home.

…

She’d heard him come in, no idea what time it was or how long she’d been trying to sleep, but she recognized the quiet thud of wood on plaster as he set his staff by the door. She knew the sound of his long, lanky strides, the way his left foot dragged ever so slightly when he slowed to a shuffle as he got to the stairs because of his shitty, haphazardly _sexy_ posture. It came from always slumping, always trying to be smaller and weaker than he really was, and only really succeeded in making him more attractive to her somehow. She could hear him carefully stepping over the mess she’d left as she had made her way hastily up the stairs to the bedroom several hours ago all pissed off and not nearly drunk enough. The impossibly loud creak of the bedroom door, his pacing, his hand-wringing as he fretted over whether or not to join her in bed or sleep on the floor like the martyr he always fashioned himself to be. To apologize, maybe, or wait for her to demand it. None of this was anything new.

But then she felt him standing suddenly still at the side of the bed, carefully considering her, _examining_ her? Admiring her, even? Usually by now, they would have started arguing, then she would have pushed him up against a wall, or he would’ve wrapped his lanky limbs around her and they’d dissolve into some passionate heap on the floor. They’d wake up in the morning tangled up in each other and laugh it off, and then spend at least half of the day in bed, lazily enjoying just being together and ignoring the rest of the world.

Instead, there was this painfully long silence, especially as she was trying so hard to pretend like she hadn’t even noticed him, as if she was fast asleep, even though she knew he knew she wasn’t. She didn’t really have the energy for a good fight, and definitely not for the angry sex, then the make-up sex, that would surely follow, if she started screaming at him now.

She heard him finally take a long, sad, ragged breath, and then a sigh, as she still just laid there on her side, facing away from him, paralyzed by the fear that he might just vanish again, or she might wake up from this dream, if she did anything or nothing at all.

She could feel her heart racing, her chest tightening. What was this? Was she...panicking? No! _She_ didn’t panic. That was the only thing she really knew to be true about herself. She could lose her temper. She could say horribly inappropriate things at the worst times. But she didn’t panic. And yet, here she was: her entire universe wrapped up in her relationship with him, and for the first time, it just _felt_ like it was all finally coming apart. Like she was actually physically breaking into pieces.

Anders lifted the comforter and slid into bed next to her with a strange determination. She tried not to give him any hint of acknowledgment, even though she knew he knew she was wide awake and struggling to keep it together. She was practically shuddering with the effort it was taking to keep her breathing manageable and her heart from beating out of her chest. He drummed his fingers gently along her hip, running them lightly just under the hem of the old tunic she was pretending to be sleeping in. He recognized the frayed edges and the stains that wouldn’t come out no matter how many times Orana had tried to launder it. Neither of them could remember whose it had originally been, or if it had maybe been looted from some corpse or musty barrel, but it was a cherished piece of clothing to both of them for its comfort and the shared memories that were imbued through all the wear and tear as they’d passed it back and forth, even fought over it, for the past few years.

He had last worn it in the clinic, a few weeks back, which reminded him that he’d been neglecting his patients as well as her. He smiled sadly to himself imagining Hawke tearing angrily through the laundry to find some part of him she could wrap herself up in. She would be too embarrassed to admit it, of course, but the fact that she hadn’t swatted him away and started berating him yet was a testament to just how fragile she was right now.

And it was his fault. He slid his hand further up her side, pulling her hip firmly back toward him, attempting to open her up, allowing her lungs some space to expand. She realized how tightly she’d been curled up, but still kept her eyes shut, her jaw clenched, all of her muscles tensed. He didn’t know how to make it up to her, wasn’t even sure if he could, but he knew he could, at the very least, save her from the full-blown panic attack she was on the verge of having.

Hawke could feel the warm buzz of healing magic beginning to flow from his fingers, coursing through her, attempting to untangle the knots in her chest and open up spaces in her throat and lungs so she could breathe. It was a familiar warmth, and she had certainly been missing it lately. In fact, she’d never felt as though she needed it as much as she did right now. But she didn’t want to give herself over to it. She held her breath. She tried to fight it off, in spite of herself.

“Marian, please...let me help,” he whispered, finally breaking the silence. So he _was_ real. Not just some ghostly apparition.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” She suddenly spun around in bed to face him, attempting half-heartedly to wriggle out of his grasp, but only succeeding in exposing more of herself to his touch as his hands fumbled to hold onto her and steady her heaving shoulders beneath the layers of bedding and clothing.

She was trying her best to look furious as she glared at him, attempting not to show him how terrified she was. Or how relieved she was to see him. Or how desperately she needed him.

Instead of answering her, he burrowed his face into her collarbone and pulled her even closer to him. He couldn’t bare to look into her piercing, panicking ultramarine eyes while she was in such a state. Not tonight.

 _Never again_ , he consciously thought. There was no response from Justice. No admonishment or warning or reassurances to be had. He wasn’t really expecting one, but the internal dialogue had become a habit.

“If you think you can just…” She tried to push him away. But she just didn’t have it in her to fight him anymore. She gave in to the flood of relief that he had been building up against the last of her stubborn defenses. She shuddered, shedding a few rare tears as he held her in his arms, pulling all of the pieces of her back together, and she finally let him get to work.

...

As her healer, Anders was an entirely different person. He spoke very little, and he worked with a confident, commanding determination and focus that he rarely had when he wasn’t doing magic. Once she could properly breathe, Hawke allowed herself to lay back and appreciate these things about him. Among so many other things lately, she missed working with him in the clinic. Or, more accurately, gawking at him in admiration while he did all the life-saving work and she just emptied a few bedpans. It was the same when they were together in a fight, if she ever had a moment to catch her breath and appreciate just how good he was at slinging defensive spells and fireballs and lightning and keeping all of them safe and alive in spite of themselves. When it came to taking care of _other people_ , Anders was downright formidable. If only he could be persuaded to take better care of himself.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

He finally looked up at her, his eyes full of relief. And then, suddenly sadness fell over him like a heavy blanket. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t understand. She wasn’t berating him or anything. She had said she loved him, thanked him, even! Maybe he wanted a bit of yelling? To know that things were back to normal.

“Sorry? For taking off again? You should be! Everyone has been worried about you, and they keep asking me questions like I’m supposed to be keeping track of your whereabouts or something. I know you can look after yourself, and we’ve all got a lot going on, but just a little update or _something_ \--” It was a weak attempt at yelling, but it would have to do. She couldn’t be angry with him after what he’d just done for her.

“No. Well, yes. All of that, too, I suppose, but more for being the reason for all of this.” He rested his hand on her heart, which had, thanks to him, returned to beating at a normal, bearable rate. “I promise it’ll all be over soon, love.”

“How else will I know that I’m alive if I don’t have you giving me cause to freak out?” Hawke tried to joke instead, but Anders didn’t seem to be in a joking mood, either. Her crooked smile and half-hearted laugh were only met with more sadness from his amber eyes. “Ok. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all is wrong. It worked. The materials you helped me gather, the spell from Tevinter...Justice won’t be bothering us tonight. I found a way to deal with him.”

“Anders...when you say ‘deal with him’ -- “

“Trust me. It is better this way. Soon, Justice will be free from this wretched prison. Free from my corrupting influence. I hope he finds his way back to the Fade, where he will be most happy, but if not, he will at least be able to find a better host than me.”

“You know I love him, too, right? As a part of you. At least, he always has been as long as _I’ve_ known you. So I wouldn’t want --” Hawke suddenly realized she was making this about her, when Anders was clearly struggling with plenty himself. This was one of his best defenses when he was trying to avoid telling her something: getting Hawke to focus on herself. “I just -- it must be hard, after the two of you have been together for so long. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. For the first time in a very long time, I have one clear voice in my head telling me what I must do.”

“And what is that? What must you do?” She was trying so hard not to pry, but he was being so vague.

“It is something I must do alone.”

“Anders...you’ve been doing it _all_ alone lately. Let me help. Let me be a part of this one? Pretty please? I’m soooo bored!”

“No. I can’t. You can’t.”

“Excuse me? What? Is it some new vow of secrecy for the Mage Underground or something? You know Varric knows everything they’re up to, anyway.”

“No. Please, Hawke. Just trust me.”

Ugh. Those fucking words. How many times had she asked the same of him? This had always been part of the agreement between them, and it’s the only way their relationship had worked for as long as it had. Don’t pry. Don’t nag. Don’t demand answers or hold people to promises they can’t keep. Trust. Love. Forgive. Life could be too short, too doomed, too gloomy for all of that to weigh you down.

“I do.” She didn’t. But she couldn’t admit that to herself, let alone to him. She loved him. She wanted to protect him, to join him in whatever crazy scheme he had to ‘make things right’ in a monstrous world where nothing was ever as it should have been. She trusted in his intentions, trusted that he was always working toward good, no matter the means. But she didn’t trust _him_. Not in this state. And not without Justice there to guide him and protect him, she realized. If what he said was true, that he had somehow banished Justice, he really was alone. And _that_ was terrifying.

He kissed her with such heartbreaking gratitude that she almost started to cry again. “Thank you, love.”

He was trying really hard to banish the sadness from his face as he looked upon her with such admiration it was beginning to get embarrassing. He managed an impish grin, more for her benefit, she realized, than his own, then asked, “Now, I know this isn’t the usual order of things, but can we make love tonight?”

“Anders…” she was still trying to process everything he had said, and many of the things he hadn’t. But sex almost always sounded like a good idea to her.

He looked so tired. She wanted to tell him to rest. To sleep. They could make love in the morning. She had no intention of letting him leave her bed for the foreseeable future.

“No passionate fights, no role-playing, just us tonight. I’ve missed you so much. The past few days...have felt like months.”

He winced as he asked her for this. Such an earnest request. Was he really embarrassed to ask such a thing?

No. This wasn’t embarrassment. It was something else entirely. Guilt. More hidden sadness. It wasn’t manipulation or evasion. It was what _he_ needed. Not an attempt to appease her or distract her or beg forgiveness. He was asking for himself. And as selfish as he often seemed, he rarely, if ever, asked for anything just for himself.

"Please, love..."

His pleas were hardly necessary. She was already on top of him, tearing through his robes, filled with fear and relief and anger and love and frustration that he was being so...so _him_. The tortured apostate abomination she loved against all her better judgment, and against most of the advice of everyone she knew. The man she’d already decided she would follow down a path of revolution and destruction, whether he liked it or not.

She stopped suddenly, pulling away from a hungry kiss, and leaving a strand of saliva dangling between them. “But afterwards, I’m going to make myself something to eat…and you, too!”

"Of course you are," he laughed, pulling her back on top of him.

...

“I love you.” Anders whispered it so sweetly into her chest that it caught her completely off guard. “So much…you need to know this.” A cool, tender, almost tragic-sounding sentiment that gave her goosebumps as it sank down like lead amid the waves of passion and energy still rushing between them.

She lifted herself up and looked at him, curiously. There were tears in his eyes. She pulled his face up to hers, still flush, still just catching her breath, but her gaze sought to pry him open, begged him to tell her more of what he was up to.

“I love you, too, of course,” she said, a little bewildered that he wasn’t putting up much of a fight as she stared into his soul, willingly laid open and bare for her in this moment. She usually had to work much harder to reach him. Layers of sarcasm and coyness, and Justice, too, of course, none of which she really minded sifting through and peeling back most of the time. It was part of what made him Anders.

This is what she had wanted, right? To be let in...but she still could only seem to find sadness. No explanations. No invitations or future plans. No reassurances. No little winks or nods. No promises that this was the end of his mysterious absences. It was startlingly blank, except for love and sadness. She couldn't even seem to find Justice in his eyes, lingering behind the warm pools of honey and amber as he often did. He really did seem to be gone.

She reached for his chin and leaned over him to kiss him, because if she kept staring, she was afraid she’d find some end to his love, but he suddenly looked panicked, like he might be completely broken by such a sweet intimate gesture. She sat up.

“Anders, please, tell me what’s wrong?” It was the gentlest she’d ever asked for anything in her life.

“I don’t deserve your love. Justice did, maybe, but not me. The chances you’ve taken, the patience you’ve given, the trust you’ve placed in me. None of it.”

“You make me sound like a saint. Or a martyr. I’m hardly --”

“ _They’re_ all lies and fairy tales, but a ‘Champion’...” Surely, he was teasing her.

“The only cause I wish to champion is yours, Anders. Everything else can rot or burn or fuck right off.”

“You don’t mean that. You care so much, Marian. About everyone and everything. You’ve worked so hard to fix things here. But I’m afraid some things are just so badly broken...”

“No. Let me join you. Let me in on whatever you’ve been up to. It’s been killing me, Anders. You saw tonight. I don’t know what that was? A panic attack?”

“Yes. I saw them a lot in the Circle. And again, I’m sorry for causing that.”

“Well, it only came from worrying about you, wondering what you’re mixed up in, wishing I could help. I won’t judge you! You could be selling children to Tevinter and I’d be like ‘He must have a good reason…’ You know I’d do anything for you. I don’t want to ‘fix’ you. I just want to be with you. Just let me in!”

“Wow, well, that’s a nice sentiment, love, with the whole child slavery angle.” Anders snorted, a hint of amusement at least. It was a start. “But I...can’t.” Then, only sadness again. Such stubborn unyielding sadness.

She wanted nothing more than to make him run away with her and forget all of this. For a few days, weeks, months...maybe the rest of their lives if she could convince him.

“We should go somewhere! To the North...or the South...or the East or the West! Kirkwall is miserable. Orsino and Meredith have both completely lost their minds and Elthina seems determined to do nothing and let the entire city implode on itself. Why wait around here? Isabela has her new ship. And she still owes me for that whole business with the Arishok. Let’s just leave! Tomorrow, if you’d like!”

Anders smiled dopily up at her in adoring disbelief. It reminded her of their conversation years ago, when they’d first started talking about a future together. He was surprised she would ever want such a thing with him, overjoyed at the time, that in spite of the tainted blood that still sometimes haunted his dreams, in spite of the fact that he shared his soul with a spirit of justice, and in spite of the fact that they’d probably always be hiding or on the run from something, she’d been open to the unlikely possibility of starting a family with him. They’d actually tried for awhile to conceive, but agreed not to stress when it seemed not to be in the cards for them. They had Pork, after all, and each other. She’d insisted it was enough. Maker bless her...he knew it wasn’t. But she believed it. For his sake.

She sat up to appreciate the look on his face for awhile as his hands began to move carefully over her body. Touching, feeling, exploring, with an almost clinical curiosity as if it was the first time he’d really had a chance to examine and appreciate her...or perhaps the last. Like he was trying to commit every last detail to memory or appreciate every inch of her one final time. She tried to ignore that thought, and just appreciate the affection, the apparent shift in his mood.

“I love you, Marian. If nothing else, I need you to understand that. I always have. I always will. And you’ve always been so wonderful to me. More than I ever deserved.”

“I know that!” She grinned.

“Marian.” His tone had shifted again.

“Anders.” She tried to mock the newfound earnestness in his voice. It was the only way she could handle all these shifting emotions.

“You need to let me go.”

She froze. “Um, what?” He had lured her into this false sense of warmth and comfort for what? To destroy her?

“When the time comes. And it will. You need to promise me you’ll forget about me and move on.” He traced the line of her jawbone up to her cheek, then pressed a finger gently against her temple.

“What are you talking about?” Without even realizing it, Hawke was shaking her head, shaking off his affection in an attempt to deny him this request.

“You know I’m a doomed man.”

She grabbed his hands, pulling them away from her, and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Anders, honestly, you’ve been saying that ever since we met. It was mysterious and sexy at first, but like, you’ve got me. I’m yours. Stop it. Really.”

He looked away from her. “Oh, love…I wish I could be worthy of you. I wish I could give you everything you deserve, everything I’ve promised to you and take you up on all the things you’ve promised me. But I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

“You are worthy. You are all I need. It’s enough. You know this. We’ve been over it a thousand times.” She was squeezing his hands and practically shaking him for emphasis.

“That is heartbreaking to hear, but thank you,” he sighed.

“Why? What are you going to do, Anders?! If you love me so much, then tell me! Stop with the stupid vague sad shit and just tell me!”

“It is because I love you that I can’t. Please try to understand.”

“I don’t.”

“You will.”

…

“Fuuuuuuuckkk…” she yelled at the ceiling, trying to gather up enough angry willpower just to sit back up, an important first step toward getting dressed. Varric was probably already on his way to the estate.

But she knew why she didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to find out what she already knew. She didn’t want to admit to herself, or to anyone else, that Anders had gone and gotten himself mixed up in something even more stupid and reckless than usual. Varric would want to know everything he said, and everything he didn’t. This felt far worse than angry manifestos or secret meetings with his Mage Underground as they plotted mage rescues and attacks on Templars, which Hawke and many of her companions would’ve happily participated in.

No, Anders was up to something horrible. So horrible that he wouldn’t even confide in her what it was. They’d killed people together! What could be so bad he didn’t think she’d be willing to join him? Or so dangerous he didn’t want to risk her safety but was perfectly fine risking his own? Something that would finally ignite all the tensions that had been building for the past few months, years, even. Last night was a pre-emptive apology. He wasn’t just apologizing for the past few weeks, she knew. But she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to remember the sadness in his face, his determined resolve.

This was Justice’s influence, right? It had to be. But why hadn’t he made an appearance last night? He usually made his opinions and his intentions known to Hawke. Out of respect. It was an understanding they’d come to in _their_ relationship, at least. He could be incredibly stubborn and demanding, but not sneaky or dishonest. No, Justice was confrontational and direct. Anders was the avoidant one. She remembered what Anders had said, about setting Justice free, and the loneliness in his eyes. The dread that had already begun to fill her head with throbbing pain spread to her chest. If she didn’t get out of bed and distract herself, with food or alcohol or trouble-making, she felt certain she was going to curl up in a ball of anxiety and die there. And Anders certainly wasn’t there to save her again.

…

“Hawke!” Varric was halfway up the stairs already before she had finally slid her pants on with a begrudging sigh.

“Varric is here!” Orana shouted up toward Hawke’s bedroom as she ran out from the kitchen, hustling around with vials of hot bubbling liquid she was trying to fit into Hawke’s potions belt without spilling them all over herself or Hawke’s gear.

Hawke emerged, feigning a bit of sarcastic irritation at the sight of her friend in an attempt to hide what was really bothering her. “Varric...will you ever start knocking? I’m a proper noble woman now. There’s protocol and shit to seeing visitors.”

“You’re kidding, I hope.”

“Yeah, obviously. But I did literally _just_ put my pants on.” She took her time lacing them up in a futile attempt to make him feel uncomfortable. He had always been impossible to embarrass, in spite of Hawke’s and Isabela’s many attempts.

“Well, at least you’re wearing pants.” He motioned down to where Isabela and Fenris were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Only one of them was wearing pants, and he looked especially annoyed to be there this morning. “I ran into these two loitering outside the Hanged Man on my way here and told them to come along...more for their own sake, obviously. They were about to pick a fight with some uppity mages from Tevinter that Corff had already tossed out.”

“We weren’t loitering, we were eavesdropping! Gathering intel, and what not!” Isabela called up to them.

“On who?” Hawke yelled down to her, trying to ignore Varric’s dismissive eye-rolls.

Fenris was scowling, but Isabela nudged him to corroborate her story. “Another group of slavers seems to have arrived from Tevinter,” he sighed.

Hawke’s eyes lit up a little at the news. This was far more exciting, and a welcome distraction from her original plans for the day. “But we’ve killed Danarius, all the thugs he sent after you... _and_ his apprentice. What was her name?”

“Hadriana.” Fenris growled, his markings beginning to glow a little.

Orana winced at the sound of that name. Yes, her Mistress had been as cruel as any slave-owning aristocrat, and when Hawke and her companions had found her, she was about to be sacrificed for a blood ritual, just like her Papa had been right in front of her eyes, but up until that point...life in service to the woman and her household had been all she’d known. It didn't make any sense that Orana still harbored any fondness, any loyalty to her former Mistress. She knew that. At least, she tried to know that. But hearing her name spat out the way Fenris had just done still felt somehow disrespectful. It almost made her want to defend the woman.

“Does _anyone_ have time for tea? Coffee? Cinnamon rolls?” Orana squeaked, trying to banish all the troubling thoughts that haunting name had churned up inside of her. “I made some for the Feddics this morning, but they --”

Hawke shot her a quick meaningful look and shook her head.

“ -- they, uhh, decided they didn’t want…” Orana was struggling. Mention of her old Mistress had thrown her off her usual game. “Well, anyway, and of course, Anders didn’t --”

Hawke’s glare intensified. What was wrong with Orana? She was usually so socially-savvy, and good at keeping secrets.

Orana looked to Fenris who was staring at her with more interest than usual. It was his fault. _He’d_ mentioned her. She was in awe of his ability to renounce his past life so confidently and completely, and often wished she could so boldly declare her freedom and start a new life all on her own, without depending so much on the kindness of others like Hawke and Anders and all the rest of them who had taken her in and provided her various forms of protection. She wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to exist without Hadriana telling her how to live her life if Hawke hadn’t stepped in and offered her a home and a job as her live-in assistant. She was grateful to them all, of course, but she wished she could just reset her entire life the way Fenris seemed to have done.

After a painfully awkward pause, Hawke descended the stairs and took up the conversation they’d been having about these new slavers, hoping no one would remember to ask about Anders or the Feddics if she could just keep it going. “Who else could still be after you?”

“They’re not after _me_.” Fenris was getting impatient with all of them, beginning to fidget and betray his usual cool, calm demeanor. It seemed he had already made his mind up about what he was doing today, and it didn’t involve any cinnamon rolls, much to Orana’s relief. She liked him well enough when he came over for reading lessons, but when he was in one of these moods, she found him unsettling.

“Oh. So these are just your everyday run o’ the mill kidnappers, then, looking for vulnerable citizens to haul off illegally into the Imperium?” Her tone was jovial and sarcastic, but all who knew Hawke could see the righteous anger starting to seethe out of her through her piercing eyes. Fenris’ eyes began to twinkle, too, his scowl fading just a little no matter how hard he tried to remain irritated that they were delaying him from ripping hearts out of Tevinter slavers.

Isabela, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide her gleeful smirk, her eyes bouncing excitedly between the two of them. This was what she had been hoping for. “That seems to be the situation.” She eyed Varric as he followed Hawke down the stairs.

He sighed in defeat. “Maybe after we hit up the Bazaar, we can head down to the Docks?”

Hawke’s excitement dwindled a little. Varric certainly hadn’t forgotten why he was here.

Fortunately, Fenris was unrelenting. “They may not linger very long once they realize how unfriendly the city’s become toward them. They will take anyone they don’t think will be missed and then be off before noon.”

Hawke smiled ruefully, her mood improving significantly with this new, clear mission. It would feel just like old times. Anders would feel so left out, too, when he found out what they’d been up to in his latest absence. “ _Or_ we could head down there first. Glavonak can wait. I doubt he’ll get chased out of town before we finish dealing with this group of assholes.”

Varric couldn’t believe how quickly he’d lost control of this situation. “You sure, Hawke? What about Blondie?”

There it was. The thing Hawke had been trying to avoid acknowledging out loud to her companions. Spoken out into the universe. Fucking Varric. So persistent. So hard to distract. She usually loved him for this, but today, it was really fucking irritating.

Fenris’ eyes flickered a little at the mention of Anders, too. Perhaps he felt a bit guilty about being a jerk the night before, or perhaps he, too, felt a little conflicted about chasing down slavers while their unpredictable ‘friend’ was still missing. He looked down at his feet before anyone but Isabela could have noticed. She discreetly grabbed his arm and he leaned ever-so-slightly into her. She was the only one who could’ve guessed how this might have affected him.

“Yeah, slavers are a more immediate concern,” Hawke waved her hands dismissively, “He came by last night, anyway.”

Orana felt a little guilty for bringing him up in the first place. But not terribly. She sensed Hawke would need help dealing with the Anders situation, no matter how stubbornly she insisted on trying to keep it all to herself. And the sooner it was resolved, the better. For everyone. Seeing Hawke like this was painful. But not seeing Anders at all was pretty unbearable, too.

Fenris looked up in unguarded hopefulness. Hawke barely noticed, but Isabela squeezed his arm even tighter. The scowl on his face kept him from revealing anymore of his feelings on the matter.

Varric, on the other hand was doing as much as he could to demonstrate his impatience with everything that was not being discussed. “And…? What’s going on with him?”

“I dunno. Doesn’t matter.” Hawke shrugged.

Varric furrowed his bushy brows at her in disapproval. He was not convinced. In fact, nobody was convinced. Isabela had plenty of questions she wanted to ask later, in private, and although he was concerned, Fenris didn’t feel it was his place at all to pry. He’d made his reservations about Anders known to Hawke long ago, and even if his feelings for both of them had changed and developed quite a bit over time since then, it wasn’t his business. They’d chosen each other. Not him. And he’d chosen to stay out of it.  

Besides, she was clearly searching desperately for a reason to put off the conversation with the dwarf in Lowtown, or any conversation about Anders, and far be it for any of them to come between her and her favorite pastime: thwarting slavers. They were all rather fond of the activity for various reasons, but Hawke seemed to get the most actual _enjoyment_ out of it.

“To the Docks, then?” She pointed gleefully toward the door with her daggers, feeling a bit more alive at the thought of fighting bad guys, her lingering headache almost completely forgotten.

“With or without you, that’s where I’m headed.” Fenris’ voice softened a little as his eyes traveled slowly up her arms from her daggers to her shoulders, her neck, her jaw, her cheekbones, and then finally her eyes, filled with excitement and vengeance. “Though I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.” He very nearly smiled at her as she happily sheathed the blades and stepped, almost skipped, toward the door.

Isabela beamed at Varric who shook his head at all three of them. On their way out, he begrudgingly slipped her the coin he had secretly bet her that their sparkly broody friend would not be able to draw Hawke so easily away from her original plan for the day. Varric had either underestimated Hawke’s love for killing slavers or overestimated her concern about Anders. There was also the matter of Fenris’ influence over her, something that had caught Varric completely off guard. Maybe he needed to exchange notes with Isabela more often, or at least get his hands on more of her “friend fiction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the length! I have no self-control. And this is AFTER cutting like seven gratuitous angsty sex scenes. ;) You all know what's coming, though...


	3. Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finally speaks to Temmerin Glavonak about bomb-making, and has to face up to her denial. And Orana gets stabby!

They’d come to the Lowtown Bazaar for a specific purpose that day, but the urgency of the matter seemed completely lost on everyone except Varric. Just a few hours earlier, they’d successfully intercepted a group of overly opportunistic and horribly incompetent slavers from Tevinter, freeing a dozen orphan children and a handful of young fearful mages who had been foolish and desperate for any way to evade the Templars. So they were all feeling quite pleased with themselves, not to mention weighed down by the significant amount of coin they’d looted off of the slavers and their hired thugs.

Varric rolled his eyes with exasperation as Hawke and her other companions strutted victoriously around the vendors’ stalls, hustling for samples from the food vendors, heckling with the jewelry and trinket sellers, or, in Isabela’s case, perusing the haberdasher’s wares (“New boat, new hat!”). These were luxuries they used to have to steal or find in abandoned crates in dark alleys. Now that they were associated with the ‘Champion,’ things usually came with a heavy discount, not that any of them were really struggling financially these days. Especially not Hawke, who had a reputation for throwing her own new-found prosperity around as if it had an expiration date. Today was certainly no exception.

Varric finally managed to catch Hawke’s attention with his eye-rolling and impatient foot stamping long enough to pull her and her overactive appetite for frivolous spending away from the many distractions of the Bazaar. She shouldn’t have been so easily distracted by shiny objects or soft furs or flamboyant headgear or delicious pastries. One of the Glavonaks had made his way into town and was peddling his family’s special kind of wares for a limited time, mostly because he would undoubtedly be chased out of the city by an angry mob as soon as some idiot actually used one of his explosives. They’d all seen for themselves how effective they were in the Deep Roads. And nearly been crushed in the aftermath when they collapsed the ancient Dwarven corridor on the Darkspawn they’d encountered while searching for Anders’ old Warden friend Nate a few years back.

Hawke turned to him, taking an obscenely-large mouthful of the spit-roasted pork she’d just purchased from her favorite meat vendor. “What is it, Varric?!” she hissed at him in annoyance, between chews. If he hadn’t been so irritated with her right now, he might’ve been impressed by her complete lack of manners.

“Well as soon as you’re done flaunting your good fortune like a casteless nug-breeder who’s just stumbled upon a lyrium vein, please join me at Glavonak’s stall. You can’t just keep ignoring what’s been going on with Anders.”

“How about you stop telling me how to live my life?” She took another bite, fat dripping disgustingly down her chin. “I’ll breed nugs however I want! Wait...that’s really a thing?”

Varric completely ignored her attempt at changing the subject. “You’re over 30, Hawke. Grow the fuck up. I’m not trying to be your dad. I’m trying to keep a friend from doing something insane that could endanger us all. And you should be just as invested as I am in figuring out what your lunatic boyfriend has been up to.”

“He’s not a lunatic!”

“He has not been himself lately. You know it. I know it. Everyone fucking knows it.”

“Well, he says he took care of it.” Hawke could feel her headache coming back. As delicious as the pork had been a few bites ago, she was suddenly not hungry at all. She looked at it in her hand and tossed it aside, unable to even think about eating anymore.

“Took care of what?”

“Justice. He says he’s...set him free.” Saying the words were more difficult than she had expected. What if Anders had somehow harmed the spirit, or banished him into oblivion? Or trapped him in some kind of object or something? None of those things sounded like the type of thing Anders would ever do, seeing as how he hated all forms of captivity, but he hadn’t explained anything, just that Justice was gone. And the whole situation was worrisome.

“Andraste's ass, Hawke! And you don’t think that makes him sound like he’s completely lost it?!”

She didn’t know what to say. Of course she did. She was terrified for him. But what was she supposed to do? She’d tried. She’d begged him to tell her what he was doing, to let her help, even. But he’d refused.

Hawke was no longer capable of feigning nonchalant indifference. She looked at Varric, a hint of panic in her eyes, and whispered. “I don’t know what to do. He just up and left again before I could get an explanation. I’ve had an eye and an ear out for him with our network of ‘friends’ all over Kirkwall all day. Nobody has seen him since he blew off Orana this morning. I thought maybe he’d be back in his clinic, but nobody has seen anything down there, either. He left before I woke up. If Orana hadn’t seen him go, I’d have sworn he was just a dream.”

Varric tried to take a softer tone with her. “I know. He’s a pain in the ass, and really good at disappearing. We should at least go talk to Glavonak about that stuff he had you collecting. So that we have some idea what we’re in for.”

...

Orana was restless again. Still. After everyone had left to go after the slavers, she’d tried to settle back into the couch for more reading, but the estate was too quiet. She’d made some more potions for Hawke just in case Anders wasn’t back for some time. Then she’d gone to the market to replenish the groceries, but without Anders or anyone else around, there wasn’t much to restock. Just a loaf of bread for Hawke’s midnight sandwiches, coffee, and some cream. They were well-stocked from the butcher for weeks, and the little garden Anders and Orana had setup a year or so ago in the courtyard of the estate provided them with an ample supply of seasonal fruits, vegetables, and herbs. She stood in the kitchen, staring at the larder, as if she could somehow conjure up something through sheer willpower that she might have missed in order to have an excuse to go back out.

But there was nothing left for her to do. She sighed, remembering what the house had been like when Leandra was still alive, hosting lunches, fancy dinners, and with a constant stream of visitors to cater to. That had been the most familiar to Orana, an easy transition from her life in Tevinter, serving in Hadriana’s household. Except here she was paid, not owned, and she had rights, of course, not that she very often felt compelled to exercise them.

She thought of Anders, busy scribbling out angry letters and working on his Manifesto at night, reading sections of it out loud to her in the early morning, asking for her thoughts, or plucking away awkwardly at the lute upstairs to her amusement when he couldn’t bear the company of the constant stream of Hightown nobility that had used to come and go through the estate.

And she remembered when Hawke’s friends still all visited the estate on the regular, drinking and arguing and making messes and telling shocking tales of their exploits together, inviting her to join them next time, even though she always laughed their offers off as a joke. Only to be shhhhhed and cowed by Leandra, the closest thing to a mother many of them had ever had, when their arguments lasted too far into the night.

She never thought she’d miss the arguments, or the shushing, or the lute-playing for that matter. Now, she wasn’t sure which she missed more.

And now, all of that seemed lost. Orana felt lost in this home. In this place. In all the quiet, she finally had the space to realize that this still didn’t feel like _her own_ life at all.

To her surprise, she had wandered absentmindedly over to the chest where Hawke kept old weapons and gear she couldn’t bear to sell. They were mostly worthless trinkets that held some sentimental value or were trophies of some vanquished enemy. Anders may have kept silly sentimental items like old pillows or cat figurines tucked away among his sparse belongings, but Hawke hoarded weapons. She had tried to give one of the smaller double-sided Dalish daggers, covered with scrawling markings Merrill had identified as reminiscent of Ghilan’nain, to Orana when she first came to live here, and it’s what she used whenever Isabela or Hawke attempted to “train her” for self-defense purposes, but she never carried it with her when she went out, despite their encouragement. She had never been able to imagine herself using it. And she had no particular attachment to its Dalish origins, having been raised a slave in Tevinter. But Hawke must not have realized that Dalish customs, language, and traditions were all forbidden to them.

Nevertheless, she wrapped her hand around the leather-covered hilt. It was cool to the touch, but not slippery, the leather providing just the right amount of grip. It fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, like it had been fashioned just for her, even though Hawke claimed she had found it in some ancient cobweb-covered stash in Sundermount, which Merrill had verified was not a ritual burial site or altar. She pulled it out of its matching leather sheath, with beautiful Dalish stitching and a little white halla running down the side. She lifted it, and sliced it hesitantly through the air in front of her, then again, with a surprising degree of precision. She imagined it would be great at slicing vegetables. Maybe even meat.

No, flesh. The flesh of one woman, in particular. Her haughty laughter. Her cruel eyes fixed on Orana’s throat. Her pale aristocratic skin, splattered in the blood of Orana’s people. Hadriana.

The spontaneously murderous thoughts made Orana gasp, and her cheeks go red. Then the blush spread to her ears. What if someone had seen her practicing with the dagger? What if someone could have somehow known she was imagining using it on her Mistress?

But Hadriana was dead. Fenris had seen to that. She’d been his torturer, too, and Orana couldn’t imagine how horrific the ‘special treatment’ he’d received as an important experiment, a pet project to the Magister and his team of apprentices, had been.

Orana laughed aloud, startling herself a little, as it echoed through the empty estate. Then she laughed again at herself, for being startled. Here she was feeling panicked and guilty about fantasizing about killing a dead woman. A dead woman who deserved to be dead. For once, she felt a little jealous that Fenris had been given the honor in bringing about her Mistress’ death.

She took another few practice jabs into the air in front of her. “You bitch! You fucking monstrous bitch!”

It was the first time she’d ever allowed herself to actually be _angry_ with her former Mistress. Not just sad or avoidant. Not worried or anxious. Not confused. She was rightfully furious with the woman and the entire society that had enabled her and so many others to be so...cruel.

“My whole childhood! My mother...my father! You took it all from me! And for what? Power? You were never respected, never seen as one of them, no matter how many of us you might have sacrificed. You served a Master, just as I. And you died in a cave, with no one to mourn for you.”

Orana had very thoroughly eviscerated the air in Hawke’s study, slashing in front of her with each wrathful declaration. She was panting, and glistening with tiny droplets of perspiration. And she felt more alive than she ever had. She was on the verge of something. Something within her had been awakened.

Fenris had been given the opportunity to kill his Master, Danarius, too. Maybe that was his secret. Maybe the only way to truly set one’s self free was through violence. Anders, or Justice, always insisted there were other means, but so far, all of their efforts toward mage freedom had proven mostly futile.

Orana had never been violent. She’d spent her whole life trying her hardest to accommodate others, not to offend, but to serve, and to be invisible whenever she could. And she was good at that. But maybe it was time for her to take action. She obviously couldn’t confront Hadriana like Fenris had confronted Danarius, but she could do _something_ besides just sitting in the living room, or hiding in a kitchen pantry, waiting for orders, or for something else to happen _to_ her.

Anders, her friend, was missing again, and by the look of him this morning, he was in some kind of trouble. She could start by looking for him. She didn’t need to decide what she would do if she found him. It was something _she_ had decided to do. And that was enough. She took a deep breath, then slid the dagger back into its sheath and laced it to her belt. She grabbed her cloak, then shoved a few healing potions into her pockets, and headed toward the cellar, toward the passage to Anders’ clinic.

\---

“Ah, Serah Hawke! I had hoped to run into you while I was in town!”

Temmerin Glavonak’s familiar earthy rumble of a voice shook Hawke out of her increasingly panicked thoughts just as they began to turn even darker. He would be able to confirm that her paranoia was just that -- that you couldn’t make a bomb with sela petrae, drakestone, and a little magic. Or a lot of magic. That would be the biggest wildcard, she supposed. What would Temmerin know about _magical_ explosions? She knew his bombs used lyrium -- wasn’t that basically just magic extracted directly from the ground instead of -- she actually had no idea where raw magical energy came from. It wasn’t the first time Hawke wished she knew more about magic and less about stabbing things or picking locks. And it wouldn’t be the last.

Hawke tried to sound cheerful, but it came out a little more forced than her usual casual sarcastic tone. “Temmerin! Glad to see you made it out of the Deep Roads alive!”

“Thanks to you, I reckon. But you’ve gotta tell me. Was it a big explosion? You used the explosives I left you, right? TELL ME YOU USED THEM!” He was practically frothing for an exciting retelling of the effects of his handiwork.

“Of course we did. And it was HUGE! Everyone was like, ‘Oh Maker...this is the biggest explosion I’ve ever seen! Temmerin Glavonak, you paragon of Boom!’”

Temmerin’s eyes went wide, but then he blushed. “Awww...you shouldn’t tease me like that, Serah! I’m just happy to have been of service.”

She chuckled half-heartedly. She knew how to humor the dwarf, at least. It was another welcome distraction from her real purposes for seeking him out.

Varric glared at her. “Enough, Hawke. The last thing we need is these fools elevated into Dwarven nobility. I rather like keeping a nice thick layer of dirt and rock between the Deep Roads and the surface. For personal _and_ professional reasons.”

Temmerin gave him a sour look, then turned back to Hawke. “Well, then, what can I set you up with? I hear you’ve invested in that hopeless surfacer mining operation.”

Hawke groaned. “Ugh. Yes...the Bone Pit. Don’t remind me. Giant spiders, a whole dragon brood, the undead. We’ve got it all down there!”

“The Bone Pit? Really? Who decided to call it that? Mines deserve better. You could always use a little of my explosive power to dig deeper. You might actually find something valuable. You might even think about renaming it the Bone _Chasm_.”

Varric rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, and with our luck, we’d release some other unspeakable evil...maybe another Blight? It’s only been a few years since the last one, but it was too short, I feel, so why not?”

“...or maybe you just want to cut your losses and implode the whole thing in on itself? Is it insured? I can help you with that, too!”

“That’s not why we’re here.” Varric grumbled.

Temmerin winked at Hawke. “No sense of adventure, this one.”

Hawke shrugged. “Yeah, but he’s loyal, I suppose.”

“Ha! To who? His crossbow?!”

“Watch it, Glavonak.” Varric patted Bianca and glared at the other dwarf even less playfully than he had been glaring for the past few minutes. “Didn’t you have something you wanted to ask this nughumper, Hawke?”

Hawke had been purposely avoiding this, but this is why she brought Varric along, she supposed, to keep her focused when all she really wanted to do was bullshit and forget what was bothering her. “Oh yeah...well, and I hope you won’t take this as an insult to your craft, Temmerin, but I was wondering about a couple of rather odd ingredients I was recently gathering. For a friend.”

Temmerin smiled mischievously. “We keep some things secret, in the family, but I’d be happy to help you, err, _your friend_ , I mean, get started making your own explosives, Serah.” He winked again.

“No, it really _was_ for a friend. And I really hope it’s not for _that_. But I’m a little concerned, actually. I should’ve probably asked more questions of him, but now he’s gone and buggered off somewhere, so I’m asking you. The expert, as it were.”

His smile faded a little, but he was still flattered enough to answer her questions. “I see. What did he have you collecting?”

“Umm, so we had to go get a bunch of this like, literally, fossilized shit, _sela petrae_ , I think he called it, from the sewers. And then, in that ill-fated mine you mentioned, we found a bunch of raw drakestone. Like, I would say probably at least five to ten pounds of each.”

Temmerin looked up at her, a hint of dark jealousy on his face. “He had you looking for what?! Who is this maniac and how did he figure out our secret recipe?!”

“He said it was a Tevinter recipe.”

“Bah! The ‘Vints got the idea from us! Those ingredients, mixed together in such quantities, with just a simple catalyst, could blow up...oh, nugshit, I dunno --”

“...please don't say the Chantry…please don't say the Chantry...” Hawke was shaking her head in disbelief, refusing to make eye contact with either of them.

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Temmerin, you guys. Someone should really ship him and Orana. Not me. But someone.


	4. Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is too late. Or just late enough.

How could she have been so stupid? Anders had asked her to help him gather the ingredients to a giant bomb, and she had happily obliged him, without a second thought.

Hawke knew he’d been unraveling for weeks, months, really. She’d done all she could to keep him together, and he had _always_ been unpredictable and reckless, but this? No. She couldn’t have imagined he was capable of this. She still couldn’t. At least she didn’t _want_ to.

“Well, yes, now that you mention it! That would make one helluva fireworks display out of that gaudy architectural monstrosity. I bet even Dworkin’d be impressed! Would serve ‘em all right, too, building all the way up into the sky like that...”

Temmerin was still talking with awe about the explosive power of the bomb she’d helped Anders assemble, but she had stopped listening awhile ago. She had already begun to make her way out of the Bazaar, her mind and body numb to all the earlier distractions she’d allowed to keep her from this moment of panicked realization. Now she felt nothing except for a sudden overwhelming urge to get to the Chantry. To find Anders. Before he…nope. Still couldn’t think about it.

She yelled back behind her toward Isabela and Fenris who were still casually browsing the other merchants’ stalls, completely unaware.

“We have to go! NOW!!!”

Isabela had been twirling around Fenris in a set of ridiculous black feather pauldrons, performing what she thought was a pretty convincing Anders impresssion, as Fenris tried not to crack a smile or release a snort of laughter to betray his ever-present scowl. She begrudgingly took the fun new costume piece off and set it back on the display, showing a seriously uncharacteristic level of restraint.

“This feels foreboding,” Fenris muttered, his hard-won half of a smile fading quickly at Hawke’s urgency.

Isabela’s pout transformed into something more wicked, a dangerous smile spreading across her face as she realized something was up. “Invigorating, even!”

Varric was at Hawke’s side, but just barely keeping up. He lowered his voice. “Hawke, you don't actually think Blondie would...?”

“I can't think. We don't have time to think. Oh, Anders, what the fuck?!” Hawke pressed forward, leaving the dwarf trailing behind her.

“Right. To the Chantry, then!” he shouted, already out of breath as the other two easily caught up to and overtook him.

...

Passing through Hightown in a frenzied sprint, Hawke easily caught the attention of the City Guards as they changed shifts for the night. One of them yelled to a runner on his way back to the Keep, “Send word to the Guard Captain that the Champion appears…distraught… and is running toward the Chantry.”

“Aye!” the runner yelled back, hurrying faster toward the Keep. The Guardsmen had learned to keep an eye out for the Champion of Kirkwall, especially when she was running across town in a state of complete panic.

Merrill, on her way to Fenris’ home for their weekly evening tea, also saw the commotion and hurried after her companions. “Oh, dear! Wait for me...whatever it is...I’m on my way! I want to help!”

...

But they were too late.

Or just barely late enough, since being any earlier would have almost guaranteed that they’d have made it inside the Chantry.

Hawke arrived first, breathless at the bottom of the Chantry steps just as the explosion happened. The others were not far behind.

A piercing whiney buzz barely preceded the column of red fire and familiar blue lightning that lit up the dark sky and blinded them all, burning the sight into their retinas first before the delayed sound of the explosion hit them hard in the chest. It was an impossibly huge, earth-shaking BOOM followed by the numb cottoney ringing of temporary deafness.

The top of the Chantry was gone, blown into a million pieces falling all around them, along with every last bit of the hope which had propelled Hawke here at such breakneck speed. Anders had used himself as the “catalyst” Glavonak had mentioned. Maybe Justice, too. She’d recognized that magic, mingling with the fire. She knew it intimately, too well not to know it was him. Not just a part of him, but all of him. Her worst fears, the ones she’d refused to allow herself to entertain, had been realized in an instant right in front of her and she had been unable to stop him. If she’d been less distracted, if they hadn’t decided to hunt slavers that morning instead of heading directly to Lowtown...no. She couldn’t deal with those thoughts right now.

“Damn him!” Hawke screamed, though none of them could hear her. Even so, they managed to get the gist of it as she dashed up the steps with her daggers drawn. It was as if she thought she might somehow beat back the rising inferno through sheer force of will and drag him kicking and screaming out of his own destruction. Or maybe she intended to kill him herself just in case the explosion hadn’t. Either way, the conflagration seemed determined to stop her as another blast flung her back down the steps, bruising enough of her ribs and giving her enough pause to think better of throwing herself headfirst back into the rapidly-growing devastation in front of her.

She stood up, hunched and shaking, feeling defeated sobs of anger and heartbreak rising up in her bruised chest. She tried desperately to fight it all off or shove it back down inside of her. She wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. She couldn’t accept this ending. No goodbye, no resolution, no opportunity to talk him down from this crazy plot. Or, if nothing else, to at least join him. To find a way. Together.

She knew it was pointless, but she hoped that if she stared long enough at the swirling pyre of dust and flames rising up in front of her and raining down debris all across the city, she might somehow conjure him out of it. If she could catch a glimpse of him or he of her, shielded by some miraculous magic, maybe even by Justice, if he was anywhere to be found, as some final reward for all that he had sacrificed for the spirit. If they could just see how upset she was with them, this could be fixed, she was certain.

Her eyes narrowed as tears of anger and desperation began to well up in them, stinging from the fumes and the ash and dust. _No. No no_ “NO!” She finally managed to shout out loud when staring down the chaos in front of her seemed to have had no effect.

“I’m sorry, Hawke,” a low, gravelly voice came from behind her. It wasn’t either of the voices she wanted desperately to hear right now.

Fenris had followed her up the steps, dodging several larger pieces of obliterated Chantry, in order to snatch her out of the fire in case she tried to charge forward again. He placed a heavy gauntleted hand on her heaving shoulder with a surprisingly tentative touch, trying to pull her gently away before the disaster in front of them engulfed her with it.

She couldn’t turn away from the flames to look at him, but she winced as his gentleness threatened to completely shatter her last remaining bit of defiance. She attempted to deflect it and buy herself a few more moments of denial by meeting his tone with undeserved bitterness.

“What, Fenris? Too smug to say you told me so? This is _your_ fault, you know?!”

She knew her acidic fury was misdirected at him, defensive, and unfair, but she didn’t care. Fenris had always been Anders’ biggest critic. He had warned her about all of this, and she had chosen to stupidly trust in hope and love, ignoring all the warning signs that it would eventually cease to be enough to save Anders from...himself. Not just Justice, though it would have been easy to blame him. Anders ultimately knew what he was doing. He could’ve denied Justice a body. Or at least _his_ body. He didn’t. He knew what could happen. He could’ve fought harder against this inevitable violent conclusion. He could’ve chosen her over...this.

She knew, too. She had made choices as well. Hehad warned her himself, too. Both of them. Again and again. She could’ve taken him to the City Guard. Or worse, the Templars. He never would have forgiven her, of course, but he’d probably still be alive. And the Chantry, along with anyone who was unfortunate enough to be inside tonight, wouldn’t have been blown to smithereens. She had let him down. She had let everyone down.

She was surprised Fenris hadn’t turned him in, honestly. He could’ve turned them all in, for conspiring against the Templars, or even just for sympathizing with the mages, let alone for harboring and aiding an apostate “abomination.” Maybe if he had, they wouldn’t have ended up here. Like this. They could be happily rotting away together in a Templar jail, laughing it off, plotting their escape, living a life as fugitives.

Why hadn’t he? She was suddenly furious with him all over again. She knew it wasn’t Fenris who was to blame, but she needed to be mad at someone else right now. Someone other than herself or... _him_. She squinted harder, more defiantly into the fiery abyss in front of her, refusing to turn and look at her friends who were waiting to help her, even if there was no help to give.

Fenris was still behind her. “Hawke, I know you loved Anders. And he loved you, what was left of _him_. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough to stop him from being consumed by Vengeance.”

How dare he! How dare he speak of Anders in the past tense. How dare he pretend to understand what motivated him. Hawke found no comfort in his words, whatever their intent. She clenched her fists around her daggers, digging her fingernails into her palms.

“It was a spirit of Justice!” she roared.

Spirits, demons...Justice, Vengeance -- what was the difference between them if they could both drive someone to do something like this? Or if, as she suspected was really the case, they were powerless to prevent it?

Hawke finally turned away from the blaze, throwing Fenris’ hand angrily away from her with a violent shrug of her shoulder, tears streaming down her face as her bright blue-green eyes flashed dangerously to meet his, ready to fight and stab and kick something, anything, anyone. He was her closest target, and she was ready to lunge at him. He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of her ready to attack.

“Where is the justice in this?” he whispered, extending his hand again. His consistency was unnerving and disarming against her current snarling state. His body was calm and still and fixed, but his eyes were pleading desperately with her to come away with him from all this destruction.

She felt her entire chaotic world being pulled out from under her and thrown crashing up against his firm, quiet countenance as he stood there, steadfast and solid, not even twitching a muscle to prepare to defend himself. She knew he had worked hard to learn to control his own anger. He knew what it was like to be driven by vengeance. She’d seen him lose control, watched him murder the people who’d tortured him with a satisfied grin on his face. And he’d told her with an eerie calm about killing innocent people at the command of those captors, kind people who’d taken him in during one of the first times he’d ever tasted freedom.

But he was standing there now, offering a hand to her. A way out of the deadlock she was in with the flaming mess behind them.

Anders and Justice were gone. They’d left them behind to deal with all of the repercussions. Fenris was right. It might’ve been done in the interest of justice for some bigger cause, but it certainly wasn’t _fair_.

She faltered, dropping her daggers as she began to crumble down the steps. “I -- I don’t know…” She fell forward into his arms, her injuries, both emotional and physical, finally overcoming her stubbornness.

Caught off guard by the sudden change in her demeanor, he nearly tumbled backwards down the stairs as she collapsed limply onto him. Fenris was not usually accustomed to catching people in distress. But even though he was a little smaller, he could still easily support her weight with the help of his lyrium once he had regained his balance. He was mostly just relieved that he would not have to fight her after all. He shifted her to his side, wrapping his arm around her waist and flinging her inside arm over his shoulders as he hurried back down the Chantry steps toward the others before another explosive fireball threatened to swallow them both.

“She’ll be alright. She’s strong. _She’ll_ be alright...right?” Isabela had watched from the bottom of the stairs as Hawke crumbled, not sure whether to be glad that she had not had to intervene in a fight between two of her closest friends or horrified at the sight of one of them suddenly so broken. And then, of course, there was Anders. She would have to deal with her grief later. The city was on fire, and Hawke needed her help.

The Guard Captain, Aveline, had arrived as well, completely out of breath, and was hanging further back with Merrill, both of them unsure what they had just witnessed or how to help.

Varric had joined Fenris as he made his way down the steps, supporting her from the other side. “Hawke. I’m sorry, but we’ve probably got a lot of hostile company on the way. We should get out of here before shit gets even worse.”

He looked at her, awaiting some kind of response, or at the very least, a grunt of protest. But she was unresponsive.

“You there? C’mon, girl...keep it together just a little bit longer! You can do all the crying and dying inside once we get you, and ourselves, out of sight.”

Fenris looked at the woman at his side whose whole world had just been blown apart and shook his head. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her jaw clenched tight. She was possibly in shock, or trying to will herself out of what she clearly hoped would turn out to be a terrible nightmare.

Maybe she was trying with futility to enter the Fade, to seek out Anders, or Justice, and confront them, maybe even drag them back for a proper fight. And why not? She’d done it before. She’d somehow managed to enter and exit the Fade without resorting to using any kind of blood magic, and had even brought some of them along for the ride, in order to save the mind of a half-elf abomination she barely knew. When the rest of them had given into temptation and betrayed her, she was the only one left standing, her indomitable spirit unbroken, maybe even a little smug about it, too, as she convinced the boy to learn to control and use his remarkable, dangerous powers without any thought of what terrible things _could have_ happened had she failed.

But none of that reckless naivete had worked to stop _this_.

Wherever she was right now, she was completely and utterly not there with them.

Varric saw it, too, but the urgency of their situation didn’t afford him anymore time to fret over his friend here and now. “Ok, then. Rivaini, your new ship...how quickly could we set sail?”

“That depends. Are you willing to man my vessel?” Isabela smirked uncomfortably, eyeing Hawke with concern.

“Now is hardly the time for sexual innuendo, Isabela.” Aveline had finally caught her breath as they contemplated their exit. Isabela was startled out of her usual defense mechanisms by Aveline’s use of her actual name, instead of her usual nickname of ‘whore.’

“I’m sorry, my dear, it’s just my way of dealing with the really tough shit.”

“I’ve noticed.” Aveline’s tone softened, but the urgency hadn’t faded. “Look, I can stay here and cover for you all. I need to find Bethany and make sure she’s somewhere safe before Meredith does something rash in retaliation for... _this_.”

She’d been able to put together enough of the pieces, even though she hadn’t been in the Bazaar with them when it had dawned on Hawke.

“I will tell everyone you all were in the Chantry with Anders when he…” Aveline’s voice trailed off with her eyes as they trailed up the stairs and finally took in the full extent of what had just happened, the devastation of her dear friend, and the inferno that stood where the Chantry had just been. This was going to have to be goodbye for awhile.

“I hope they believe you. We could use a nice head start, especially with this motley crew.”

“Oh! Where are we headed, then?” Merrill squeaked. She hated boats, but there was no way she was staying behind in Kirkwall without Isabela or her other friends with the threat of an all-out war between mages and Templars.

“Meredith probably won’t let us disappear so easily, you know.” Varric was eyeing the corridor down to Hightown warily, expecting to see Templars or guardsmen or even an army of rebel mages rushing through at any moment.

Fenris shared some of his concern, but he also knew that what Anders had just done would result in a lot of chaos that they could use to their advantage. “Maybe not, but they will be a little preoccupied, at least for the immediate future.”

The sounds of growing unrest nearby, angry shouts, raw and unbridled magic making the hair on the back of their necks stand up, and the rising stinging smell of lyrium burning their nostrils, seemed to reinforce Fenris’ words.

“I -- Aveline, thank you. Whatever our differences these years, I hope that we’ll be reunited someday and we can look back on all of this, have a few shots to numb the pain, and maybe a good sad chuckle about it.” Isabela hesitated, then threw her arms around the woman.

Aveline hugged her back. “Not _terribly_ likely…but go! NOW! I half feel I should go with you, but…” She looked back behind her, over Isabela’s arms that were still wrapped fiercely around her neck, toward the turmoil where she was sure Donnic and the other guards were heading to do their futile best to try and keep an impossible peace between years of pent up anger and frustration and mutual mistrust as people recovered from the initial shockwave of the explosions and really began to panic.

She had lost a lover once, and she recognized some of that same pain in her dearest friend Hawke now, but, if she could help it, she might be able to avoid that pain again herself. “Maker guide you. If you can, find a way to send word back to me without giving yourselves away! I wish you the best of luck, friends, and take care of Hawke, please! She will need you all more than ever.”

“She will be...looked after.” Fenris looked down again at the heap of a woman in his arms and wondered if she really was ruined for good this time.

Aveline nodded, then turned away, rushing back towards the growing chaos in the city below. “Maker keep you all!” she shouted back at them.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! Orana gets her own chapter next.


	5. Out of the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is gone. But Orana finds some things. And a person.

By the late afternoon, Orana had realized how stupid she’d been to go out looking for Anders on her own. She had given up on finding him, embarrassed that she had been so bold as to think she even could, when Hawke and her friends and network of contacts hadn’t been able to. They were professionals. She was...she didn’t know what she was, but she probably wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. She should’ve stuck to dusting mantles, serving tea, and baking. Those were the things _she_ was good at. Things she knew, anyway. She had been on her way back to the estate, trying to get back before dark, and hoping no one had noticed she was gone, not for fear of being in trouble, but for fear that someone might ask her how it felt to get out and stretch her wings, or worse, assume she would be interested in more adventuring.

She got to the door, which was still locked. Hawke hadn’t returned, either, apparently. Orana was a bit relieved to have the house all to herself to recover from her day of misguided adventure, until a high-pitched buzz suddenly filled her ears. She looked up just in time as her ears popped to see the Chantry blown apart in a brilliant blinding flash of blue and red.

Anders.

So _this_ was his big finale. An end to all the struggles of the past seven years. Even beyond that, she thought, his entire life had been a struggle. He may not have been a slave like she had been, but he thirsted endlessly for freedom and justice...more than she ever had.

She had been the only one who had seen his face that morning. He had been determined. Sad, a bit terrified, but determined. Even if she had found him, she realized, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

Orana stood there at the door for a moment looking at her own hand as she reached for the door handle. The same hand she had developed a surprising proficiency for wielding a dual-bladed dagger with. What would this mean for her? What would this mean for Hawke? Anders was the only thing left in this big, old, empty house that made it bearable for either of them. She wouldn’t blame Hawke for taking off now, abandoning all the work she’d put in to this place, this city, this life, for her brother, her sister, her mother, and for him...all of it having been in vain, it seemed.

As she stood there, frozen with indecisiveness amid the growing chaos of the world outside the relative safety of the first home she’d ever lived in as a free person, several Guardsmen ran past, shouting frantic things about the Grand Cleric, estimates of casualties, and passing on orders to “keep the peace!” But Orana had little stake in any of this. She realized she could leave, too. Freedom was, after all, about choices. And their consequences.

She let go of the door handle and turned to head back through the city toward the Docks. She was good at being invisible, right? She could easily sneak aboard a ship in all the chaos as people fled the city. She had enough coin with her to feed herself and find a place to stay until she could find a job in an inn or a tavern somewhere. She could write to Hawke, just to let her know she was fine once she’d settled into her own life and things weren’t such a mess. They might even visit each other someday.

As she was fantasizing about setting out on her own, another Guardsman ran up, out of breath, to the Lieutenant close by. “We saw the Champion headed to the Chantry just before the blast!”

She froze.

“Was the Guard-Captain made aware?” She recognized the voice under the armor. It was Donnic. She took a few steps closer to them.

“She was already on her way there when we heard the explosions.” The Guardsman reported. It wasn’t a secret that the Guard-Captain and her First Lieutenant were married. They were a formidable team, and fiercely dutiful to their city and its people. “I don’t know if she was caught up in the middle of it or not. I’m really sorry...er, Sir.”

“Maker protect her,” Donnic gasped. Then, with grim determination, he added, “Maker protect us all.”

“Aye.”

“To your post, Guardsman!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Donnic turned to Orana and nodded grimly in acknowledgment. “Best get somewhere safe and secure, Serah. Things are only going to get worse, I fear.”

Orana just stared at him, bewildered.

He hesitated, then, in an entirely different voice, whispered, “I’m...so sorry, Orana.” Then he turned and hurried off in the direction of a new chorus of screams and shouts and destruction.

Hawke, Aveline...and probably the rest of them, too. Anders wouldn’t have wanted it this way. He wouldn’t have wanted to take them all down with him in this furious blaze, which is why he’d been so scarce lately. But he probably wouldn’t have let any of them stop him, either. She had to go see if there was anyone...any _thing_ left of them.

…

Orana immediately thought she must’ve been mad heading back out as she saw the city falling into utter disarray all around her, but she owed Hawke and the others her life, after all. She tried to stay out of the way of Templars, Guardsmen, and fearful mages, and managed to escape the notice of nearly everyone running around in panic as she made her way toward the Chantry.

When she got there, there were several members of the City Guard clearing away debris and helping the injured as the dust and ash still settled on the steps of the Chantry and chaos began brewing elsewhere. They’d set up a blockade at the bottom of the stairs and were keeping people away from the site, as they ran up, panicked, asking about missing loved ones who might have been inside or nearby.

Orana managed to push through the crowd. “Guardsman, excuse me, but has anyone seen Serah Hawke or any of her companions?”

“The Champion?”

“Have you seen her? When she left this morning, she was headed to Lowtown with Master Tethras and several other friends, but I’ve heard rumors that they came this way just before the --”

“The Guard-Captain said they were in the Chantry when it -- well…” he motioned to the mess above them. “But you probably want to stay away from here, get somewhere safe. I doubt there’s anything left of the Champion if she was inside.”

“Right. Well...thank you.”

Orana was prepared for this news. At least she knew that Aveline had been spared. She couldn’t think of anyone more capable or well-suited to dealing with the shitstorm that was about to hit the city. But she wasn’t going to give up hope on Hawke and the others without investigating for herself. She turned and headed back toward the Hawke estate, but waited around a corner until another group of citizens began to swarm the Guardsmen on duty at the barrier with questions and injuries and urgent pleas for assistance. She darted into, then around the crowd, clinging close to the darker outer staircases and began her ascent into the cloud of smoke and ash and debris above.

She didn’t know what she was looking for, or what even might satisfy her need for closure. She didn’t actually expect to find them all still alive, or anyone, really, once she’d seen how effective Anders’ bomb had been at thoroughly destroying everything about the Chantry. Its grandiose architecture, its evening adherents and clergy, anyone and anything within the main sanctuary, where she imagined him standing before Andraste herself in all his self-destructive glory, and along with all of it, destroying the naive hope that the Chantry could ever peacefully resolve the conflicts it had helped to create.

But she needed to see and to know. Before she could start a new life, all her own, she needed to close out this intercessional chapter, between slavery and true freedom. Maybe she just wanted to pay her respects to the people who’d brought her this far.

She was picking haphazardly through the rubble, using her dagger to poke and prod, looking for any sign of them. Things were still settling all around her as the fires continued to burn and weakened structures collapsed under the weight of pulverized marble and ash. It really wasn’t a safe place to linger, she knew, but she had to see it all for herself.

Then, amid the worrying sounds of the Chantry’s continued collapse, she heard something stirring.

“Hello? Is someone there?!” she called out in the direction she thought she’d heard it coming from.

Someone or something groaned in response. They didn’t sound like any demons, at least. They sounded human. And in trouble.

“Please! Keep doing that...I am coming!”

She followed the sounds of someone struggling. Struggling to move. Struggling to breathe.

“Hold on! Stay with me!” she shouted.

A hand. She found a hand, reaching up out of the debris. She half expected it to just be a hand, missing an arm or any of the rest of the body it had belonged to. She took a deep breath, and grasped it. It was warm still, at least. And, though weak, it grasped back, to her relief.

“I got you! Don’t worry.” Orana was trying her best to sound reassuring, but she was worried what state the person this hand belonged to was in underneath the pile of debris. “I don’t want to hurt you more, so let me remove some of this junk before we get you out of here.” She let go, and the hand reluctantly released her.

The groaning had stopped, so Orana hurried to pull the largest pieces off first, before brushing away the heavy layers of ash and dust. The hand belonged to a person, after all, who looked relatively in one piece. She was not wearing the habit of a Chantry sister, to Orana’s surprise. She was in heavy leather, fine armor, but generic, unmarked by any insignia that might give some clue as to who she was or whose side she was on. And she was heavily-armed, with two daggers and a bow. She blinked up at her rescuer, reaching for her hand again, with what looked like an attempt at a bright and cheerful smile under all of the debris.

“Are you -- do you think you can stand?” Orana asked.

Her voice was hoarse, but oddly optimistic. “Let’s see!”

Orana pulled hard, using all her strength, as the woman, who was significantly taller than her, attempted to get to her feet. As she stood, she shook off the remaining splinters of wooden beams and chunks of stone.

“I guess so!” she laughed, then coughed, stumbling a little into Orana’s arms, as she found her footing. Her hoarse laugh was still somehow incredibly charming and light.

After another fit of coughing, she caught her breath long enough to croak, “Thank you,” to the woman who had saved her from an undoubtedly agonizing death by suffocation. Her gaze shifted to take in everything around her, and finally up to the open sky with gratitude. Enough of the dust had settled that they could actually see the stars above. She whispered some kind of prayer that Orana did not recognize, took a deep breath, then began coughing again.

Orana was staring at her in disbelief. Who was this? How had she survived? What was she even doing in the Chantry? She didn’t exactly look like any of the usual parishioners. She had red hair and freckles, sort of a Fereldan look to her like some of the other refugees Anders had treated in his clinic, but she was better dressed and better equipped, and with a face that was somehow both sweet and dangerously mysterious at the same time. Despite all the coughing and hoarseness, she could’ve sworn she heard a faintly Orlesian accent, too. None of it seemed to make any sense, and it was all beginning to make Orana a little suspicious. How had _she_ survived the explosion?

But then, the thought occurred to her. If this person had survived, no matter who she was, or how she’d done it, it was possible that Hawke and the others had, too.

“Have you heard anyone else moving around or struggling in here?”

The woman looked at her with pity. “No. I’m sorry. I think I might be the only one.”

“We should look, just to be sure. If you are able.”

“Yes. I think I’ve gotten most of it out of my lungs. And my legs are working again, so there’s that!” She was obnoxiously cheerful, adding another layer of untrustworthiness, considering the situation they were in. Maybe she was in some kind of shock, incapable of understanding what had happened. Or maybe she’d been hit on the head by some large chunk of Andraste.

But she was right. There seemed to be no other traces of life. Plenty of evidence of death and destruction. But nothing looked familiar to Orana. She hadn’t expected there to be anything recognizable left of Anders save the lingering hum of his magic, since he had probably used himself as the fuse. But how could the rest of them just have vanished? They’d all have to have been right there with him, and she found that highly unlikely. Isabela was remarkably proficient at getting out of the way of...everything. And Fenris, who would’ve undoubtedly kept a safe distance from a mage and his explosives, would’ve made an easily-recognizable glowing corpse here in the wreckage. Especially with all of Anders’ magical energy still flooding the place. And Varric always bragged that Bianca could survive an apocalypse. They hadn’t even found a single ruined crossbow bolt amid the rubble.

“Are we looking for anyone in particular?” The red-haired woman asked with a little too much curiosity, betraying her facade of pity and warm concern.

“A few of my Mistress’-- I mean, a few of my friends might have been here,” Orana grunted, kicking a large piece of marble that resembled Andraste’s nose out of her way.

“Let’s hope they were not.”

“The Guardsmen all claim to have seen them on their way.”

“Then let’s hope for more miracles.”

They searched in near silence for what felt like hours, even though it was only a matter of minutes, but found no other signs of life. Orana watched as the other woman prayed over each body, or piece of a body, that they uncovered, but was careful not to disturb anything. She shed quiet tears over one of the dead, and whispered personal messages to a few of them whom she seemed to have known.

Orana was almost jealous. At least she was able to say goodbye to those she’d lost here. With a hint of bitterness, she asked, “Why are you being so careful? The place is utterly ruined already.”

“I’m...not _really_ supposed to be here. At least, nobody is supposed to _know_ that I’m here.”

“Me neither.”

“Well, then we have that in common.” She smiled. Again. Orana almost regretted pulling her out of the ashes. “I imagine the Templars and City Guard will be conducting their own searches soon, and it’s probably best that they not find either one of us here.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

“My name is Leliana, by the way. I serve the Divine.”

That didn’t really mean much to Orana. Didn’t all the Chantry sisters supposedly serve the Divine? Not that Leliana seemed like a Chantry sister at all. Maybe she was a Templar, though Orana had never seen a Templar out of their official armor or without insignia emblazoned across their chest. Perhaps she was part of some rebel group that considered themselves the “true” servants of the Divine or something. Tevinter had its own Divine and its own cults, too. Orana didn’t have much patience for any of it, and definitely didn’t want to start off her newfound freedom in the company of some religious zealot.

“I’m Orana. I, uhh, _served_ the Champion. I mean, I worked for her. As her personal assistant. She paid me.”

Leliana’s smile was warm and kind and sympathetic, but there was a hint of something behind it that Orana didn’t trust. “I’m very sorry for your loss, then, Orana.”

“The Guardsmen are out front, but if you keep to the sides of the stairs, you should be able to sneak past them.”

“Thank you, again. And Maker watch over you!” Leliana winked at her, then hopped over a large stone hand, clenched around the hilt of a sword, and disappeared.

Orana wasn’t terribly sad to see the unsettling woman go. She sighed, and looked all around her one more time. Nothing. No sign of any of them left. This was not at all what she had sought out in coming here.

“Goodbye. I guess,” she whispered, then headed in the opposite direction Leliana had. She didn’t want to risk running into her again as they both tried to sneak out past the Guardsmen.

When she got to the stairs, Orana stopped and peered down into the smoldering city below. Several Templars had arrived, all hopped up on lyrium, and were already arguing with the Guardsmen about who should be in charge of investigating the ruins. She could’ve saved them all a lot of time and walked right up to notify them that there was nobody left alive inside, and that Anders had done it to ignite a mage rebellion that they were all playing their part splendidly in, but she didn’t want to be of service to anyone right now. She wanted to get out of there. To leave, and to find some other way to mourn the loss of her friends and start a new life. She hurried down the steps, sticking to the shadows, trying not to be seen.

But then, something caught her eye. Something shiny, buried in the ashes and debris a little less than halfway up the main staircase to the Chantry. She felt it calling to her. Finally, something familiar.

She looked back down at the argument happening below. It had intensified enough that, if she was quick, she might be able to scamper over to investigate the source of light without being noticed.

Before she even got to it, she knew what it was. Lyrium shining like a little beacon just for her. She reached down and brushed off the layers of ash, grazing smooth onyx with her fingers. It seemed to hum to her as she traced the lyrium-etched shaft of a large dagger up to its hilt and pulled it out. Dwarven craftsmanship. The opposite of Orana’s Dalish blade in nearly every possible way. Varric had warned Hawke about the attention she’d bring on herself with _this_ particular dagger, but she’d just gone ahead and taken out most of the gangs of Lowtown with it anyway.

“Where is your sister?” Orana whispered to the blade.

As if in response, a runestone lit up, signalling to her the location of Hawke’s other enchanted dagger. Sandal had created and affixed “a special shiny” to this dagger just for Hawke. Where the Dwarven dagger was bulky and solid, this one was curved, double-bladed, and more to Orana’s taste and proficiencies.

Orana remembered when Hawke had brought it back from the Wounded Coast. She’d proudly displayed it for Anders, who knew almost nothing about weapons, and cared even less.

“Look! A pretty gift from an old friend of Isabela’s!”

“ _Which_ old friend of Isabela’s?” Anders had looked up at Hawke, completely ignoring the dagger.

“Something with a Z...Zender...Zeppo…”

Anders' face had gone sour. “Zevran?”

“Yes! You know him?”

“He was a friend of the Hero of Ferelden, too.”

“Why are you making that face?”

“You didn’t sleep with him did you?”

“No! What do you take me for?”

“But he offered, didn’t he?”

“Well, _yes_ …Izzy took him up on it, naturally. I assumed he was kidding about the threesome.”

“He wasn’t.” Anders had returned back to his work without ever even glancing at the beautiful weapon, but Orana had been in awe of it.

She knew these daggers the way a nanny knows her charges. She had cleaned and taken care of them. Whenever Hawke had left them lying around, or stabbed angrily into the furniture, Orana had treated them with the respect, love, and attention they deserved.

She held them both up in fond admiration. If they hadn’t been sharp deadly weapons, she’d have hugged them close to her body. This was all that remained of Hawke. All she had left to hold onto or say goodbye to.

“Hey! Get down from there! Can’t you see the barrier? It’s not safe!”

Shit. In the joy of discovery, she’d forgotten all about being sneaky.

One of the Guardsmen she’d spoken to earlier had spotted her and was shouting up to her as he made a big show of preparing to ascend the stairs after her. It was obvious he didn’t want to actually come any closer to the devastated Chantry, but if he revealed how nervous the entire situation made him, the Templars would surely have gained the upper hand in their current standoff.

She tucked the daggers behind her and continued her descent down the main stairs. “Sorry, Guardsman. Was just curious…”

“...Orana?” A familiar voice reached her from the crowd of heavily-armored and helmeted Templars and Guardsmen.

“Errr...Knight-Captain?”

Ser Cullen Rutherford had been summoned to the Chantry steps. Things must’ve been getting pretty tense between the City Guard and the Templars for Knight-Commander Meredith to have sent him. While she was known for being stubborn and unmoving and cruel, Cullen had a reputation for being reasonable and diplomatic...and kind, though that impression had come from her own interactions with him. He took a few steps up toward her, away from the others, leaving them to their bickering for a few moments.

“What are you doing?”

“Umm. I -- “ She didn’t need to lie. She wasn’t really doing anything wrong. “I came here looking for Hawke,” she admitted. Maybe he’d feel sorry for her and let her continue on her way without asking too many questions.

“Are those her daggers?” Then again, maybe not.

“I...think so? I just found them here. On the steps.”

“Have you seen _her_? Or any of her companions?”

“No.”

“The Guard-Captain says she was inside.”

“So I hear.”

“If you see her or hear from her at all, please let me know right away.”

“I don’t think that is very likely.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re probably right. It’s a shame. We could’ve used her in the coming days. Without a Champion to unite us, I fear for Kirkwall’s stability in these dark times.”

“I don’t think she wanted to be _used_ by the Templars, or by anyone.”

He looked at her, a mix of surprise and admiration at the boldness of her response. They had met a few times, when Cullen came to visit the estate with news about Bethany for Leandra, or to escort her for her weekly visits when those were still allowed. He had never given Orana any reason not to like him, even if he _was_ a Templar. But he had never really known her to be so blunt.

“I mean, no offense, Ser.”

He shook his head, almost apologetically. “None taken. You should probably get back to the estate, where it’s safe. You can take Hawke’s things for now. We may be by later as we attempt to make sense of what happened.”

Orana had to stop herself from blurting out more, because she could’ve easily explained that what happened here had been a direct result of years of the Templars increasingly abusing their power in the city, leaving mages, and particularly Anders, feeling like he had no other choice but to try and start a war. Maker, she didn’t realize how much of his manifesto had sunken in!

“Of course,” she nodded a little, nearly bowing, but catching herself.

“And, um, I’m sorry about Hawke. I know you only worked for her, but...”

Orana was already racing the rest of the way down the steps, past the arguing Templars and Guardsmen who barely even noticed her. Her heart was racing, too. She had Hawke’s daggers. What exactly did she think she was going to _do_ with them? She certainly couldn’t wield them, not without more practice, anyway. But she definitely wasn’t going to bring them back to the estate. They were too precious to be seized by Templars for ‘illicit’ enchantment or as evidence against Hawke or her friends. She would need to find a new place to hide them. To hide herself, too, probably, since Cullen knew she had them.

No. What was she thinking? She had come here to say goodbye, not to gain some new sense of responsibility or duty or whatever it was she was feeling about the daggers of her former employer. Hawke was gone, anyhow, dead or just...missing.

But she just couldn’t shake whatever it was that was compelling her to stay. She could find a way to honor her friends, all the work they’d done to help the people of Kirkwall, even Anders. She knew she could put the daggers to good use somehow. Maybe _this_ was to be her new life. A free woman on a mission to do right by the people who’d given her a second life. It was as good a plan as any that she had, at least for now.

She nodded to herself, and headed off toward Darktown, resolving to stay the night in Anders’ clinic, and figure out what to do with herself, and her new daggers, in the morning.

…

“Cullen, you shouldn’t have let her take those daggers!” Leliana had just barely stepped out of the shadows from the outer staircase, careful to reveal herself only to the Knight-Captain, who was startled and almost tumbled down the steps at the sound of her voice.

“Leliana?! What in the Maker’s name --” he hissed, shoving her fully back into the shadows and bending down, pretending to inspect something buried in the ashes there that he might have tripped on.

“You underestimate her,” she whispered, crouching down next to him.

“Who?”

“The elf girl...Orana, I believe?”

“She was a slave, brought here as a blood sacrifice for some crazed Tevinter magister whom Hawke and her companions took care of for us. She’s lived with Hawke, buying groceries and baking cinnamon rolls and serving tea, ever since. She’s innocent in this. I assure you.”

“And...she snuck past your men and helped me out of that mess while looking for the Champion and her friends, who, by the way, were _not_ in the Chantry, and now she’s got two of the most iconic weapons in Kirkwall to play with. You could have at least recruited her to our cause.”

“And what is our cause, exactly? You haven’t been very clear. And why were _you_ in the Chantry? I didn’t even know you were back in Kirkwall.”

“Oh, Cassandra can explain it all to you when she gets here. I’m just the forward eyes and ears of the Divine.”

“Eyes and ears aren’t nearly as deadly as you.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea!” She giggled.

It sent chills down his spine. What had he gotten himself into? Were things really so desperate here, was Meredith really so out of control, that he was willing to work with the Nightingale herself? The only comfort he could take in this was that, as far as he could tell, he was still ultimately serving the will of Divine Justinia. And if they could find some way to bring about even a little bit of peace in Kirkwall, it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just a paragraph. Then an epilogue. And now it's a whole chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote Orana's POV stuff separately, as just an exercise in "OMG...what is Orana experiencing during all of this?!" because I became sort of fascinated with her and her life AFTER Hawke and co. flee the city. But then realized I wanted to thread her through this, so she became much more involved in the telling of this story.


End file.
